Dearest
by Hrlyqin
Summary: Moriarty leaves behind more than loose ends. Now Mycroft, John, Molly and Sherlock all need to work together to keep secrets, protect the family, and make it right.
1. Chapter 1

**DEAREST, Chapter One. **

**A fanfiction by Hrlyqin based on intellectual property owned by it's original creators.**

**A/N This started as a chapter for my story Pulling The Strings but it became something of it's own. Thank you to Roxanne-Michal for her ideas, help and support. Please enjoy and if you like it drop me a review. -hrlyqin**

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Mycroft wasn't often forced to figure out how a good conversation starts with "So, I've been spying on you." Frankly, with the nature of spying being what it is, it didn't come up much. But increasingly, it seemed like he was involved in situations he never imagined.

After the bombings, there were so many pieces to pick up (both literally and figuratively). A lot of things fell through the cracks. One of those things was Molly Hooper. After she gave her statements and after it became clear that she had no useful information, no one really paid attention.

No one except Mycroft.

So now here he was, waiting for Lindley to show her in to the study, trying to figure out how to best begin with "So, I've been spying on you..."

"Miss Molly Hooper, sir." announced Lindley. Mycroft rose from the sofa and waited for Molly to sit before he did again. After she was settled, Lindley bustled about fixing them tea while they exchanged basic pleasantries (Molly was very good at basic pleasantries). It wasn't until they were alone that the real conversation began.

"Molly, I must confess, I had a reason for asking you here."

She stirred her tea sadly, all pretense of cheer gone. "You want to talk about Jim, don't you?"

"Yes, and no. You see..."

Mentally he flipped through his list:

_I think Moriarty might come back to tie up loose ends like you._

_I can't believe that you know nothing of value, it is much more likely that you just don't realize what you know._

_I've been taking care of Sherlock my whole life and look at the mess he's gotten us all into now._

_So you see, for Sherlock, and to catch Moriarty, I've been spying on you._

He dismissed each of these as true statements, but none that would help if spoken aloud. Instead, he told her, "People give me information sometimes, Molly. So I can put it to good use. While a certain degree of...power comes with having all this knowledge, I try to use everything I know to make the world a safer place."

He took a sip of tea. There, the foundation was laid. He hoped she was with him so far. "For example, I know you've been to the doctor. Three times now. How far along are you?"

In an instant, he saw that trying to make her as relaxed as possible had been a waste. Her hands started shaking so badly that tea was getting everywhere, scalding her exposed flesh. He took her cup away from her and started to wipe her hands off with his handkerchief, using the physical contact to try and assert calmness upon her. When she was dried off, he kept his grip on her fingers and repeated his question. "How far along?"

Her lips curled up and she gave a pathetic whimper, but she answered at least. "Two months."

"And, within that time frame, there aren't any other possibilities?"

There was a shake of her head. "Jim was the only one."

For a moment, Mycroft wondered if she was glad to say it to someone else. She had not confided in any friends, and had only told her doctor that the father was 'out of the picture'.

"Do you know what you're going to do?"

She shook her head again, more adamantly this time. The tears were flowing now and her face was getting blotchy. He was about to offer her his handkerchief when he remembered that it was marinating in tea at the moment. Blast. Maybe Anthea...no, he had requested privacy.. ...

"Lindley!" he called out, trying not to sound out of sorts.

After a minute, Lindley popped his head in the door. "A warm towel for Miss Hooper please."

He patted her tiny hands and let her 'have a gold cry' (one of his nanny's expressions) while he waited. He wasn't used to this amount of...emotion. At least not this type. Normally, there was screaming, cursing, mild outrage, seething resentment, but not crying. He pondered settling this by simply knocking her out and having her placed back in her bed at home. But no, not in her present condition.

Lindley appeared with a warm hand towel as well as a fresh handkerchief Bless that man. He took them both and found himself wiping Molly's tear-stained face with the towel, like she was a small child. She had cried for precisely 12 minutes straight. He had counted.

"Better now?" he asked, setting the towel next to the abandoned tea.

"Yes, thank you. I'm sorry, it's ju-just-st that this isn't..."

"What you planned?" Mycroft offered. He knew the feeling.

"Yes, I mean, no. I mean, right. This isn't what I planned. I always thought I would get m-married first, or be in love, or at least...at least be able to suh-say..."

She was winding herself up for another spell, he could see that. Alright, he was trying to be understanding but honestly, this wouldn't do. "Molly." he said forcefully. "**Molly. Stop.**"

She looked over at him, startled, but she did at least attempt to reel in back in.

"I know how you must feel. No, I'm sorry, that's a lie. I haven't the faintest idea how you feel. But I can imagine. You feel ashamed, not only for the slightly outdated stigma of being unwed, but mostly due to the fact that the child's father is..."

"A mur-mur-murdering lunatic?"she whimpered. "A stark raving mad psycho killer who tried to blow up my fri-friends? An evil murderous bastard?"

"A less than desirable parent." he finished. That won him a smile at least. "If you decide to...terminate, I could arrange for it to be extremely private. No one would need to ever know."

She put those tiny white fingers on her stomach. "I don't think I could do that." she told him quietly. "I know it would be the smart thing but I just couldn't."

Mycroft tried to remain as passive as possible about that statement. "You realize, scientifically speaking, there is no evidence to prove that children of disturbed individuals are any more predispose to lead violent lives."

She smiled again and Mycroft wasn't sure why until she said "You sound like Sherlock."

Ah, passively observant and emotionally detached, good. "There is always adoption."

"I know. A lovely young couple with a little cottage and a p-puppy. Yellow curtains in the nursery." She was now rubbing the area around her navel, did she realize that?

She talked about yellow curtains. Had that been her plan for her life, a little cottage and yellow curtains in the nursery? She was 31 now. The age when people start beginning to reconcile the difference between what their lives were and what they thought they would be. How lonely was Molly that she had fallen prey to Moriarty? He had seen her webpage. The cat pictures. She put up such a bright exterior, coyly flittering around his brother, always excited to have visitors. But he was gifted at reading between the lines and now he looked underneath all of that. She must for some reason feel herself exceptionally undeserving of good and honest love. Especially after what happened. But she wasn't a cold creature. No, on the contrary, she had an enormous amount of love to share.

"Or, you could keep it and raise the child yourself."

Her hand stopped moving. "I don't think I could do that either. It's not fair. Better to give him or her a fresh start where no one would know about their father."

Was she...? Yes...she was crying again. But now it was silent tears. She seemed so heartbroken.

"You could say it's mine."

"Excus-se me?"

"Molly, you want to keep this baby, you just don't know how. I think it's foolish. You think this might be your last chance but it's not. You still have time to marry and have other children. However, it isn't my decision, and I also think to give the baby away would mean involving more people in this mess, as the parents would need to be informed. So keep it, and say it is mine."

"You would do that? You...you barely know me."

"I'm an extremely private man. You are an attractive acquaintance. People would believe we were sexually involved at some point, we needn't pretend to be a couple now. It would also allow me to assist you financially. It's the best solution."

She flung her arms around his neck and hugged him. Not happily, not romantically. But in relief. He patted her back and tried to share in some of that relief. After all, this was a victory.

Now, when Moriarty showed up to try and claim his offspring, he would be right here waiting.


	2. Chapter 2

**DEAREST, Chapter Two**

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Over the next month, Mycroft subtly began laying the foundation of plausibility. He and Molly visited each other frequently. He was seen buying certain items for her. He spoke to his lawyer (the gossipy one, not the real one) about revising his will. He also worked with Molly on the details of their purported affair. For some reason, it was a game she relished.

"So it was after I got that letter in my file about letting Sherlock paint poor Mrs. Clarkson's toenails, you were trying to give me a cheer-up, so we went out to Hermes...and you brought me flowers."

"Hmm?" he asked, lightly sipping his tea. Molly had a wonderful spread of biscuits out on the table before them. She was currently dunking one into some ketchup as she thought.

"You were trying to be a gentleman, so you brought me flowers. Orchids."

"Orchids." He made a mental note of it.

She finished off her biscuit and went for another. "Mycroft? When can we, you know, start telling people?"

In truth, he had already braced a few people for the news, the ones who they would need to be 'in on it'. The conversation with Anthea about it had been every bit as painful as he had expected. But when Molly said 'people', he knew she meant 'Sherlock'.

What a curious mix of emotion this must be for her. She wore her heart very plainly on her sleeve about him, but in accepting Mycroft's offer she effectively put an end to any of that becoming a reality. He personally applauded it, his brother was exceptionally bad at romantic matters and Molly was far too sweet-natured to successfully navigate in his world. But he thought there might be more to it than just that. It was something she had said to him last week while they were being seen together in the park.

"_Mycroft, does Sherlock ever talk about Jim...and I?" she had asked him. _

_"Jim and you together, you mean?"_

_"Well it's just, Jim pretending to be my boyfriend and Sherlock thinking he was gay and all. But Sherlock is really smart. He's always knowing things and guessing things and it's just strange...I just wonder if maybe he did know, or suspect, and he just left it so he could see what happened."_

He had been tempted to tell her that Sherlock would never do such a thing, but he didn't want to lie to the girl. So he wondered if her keener knowledge of his true nature explained some of her coolness towards him. He also wondered how magnificently awkward it was going to be when he told him. Not that he would believe it, Mycroft had given up on that. But he would try his best and maybe if he was very lucky, Sherlock would see the wisdom of his actions.

In the end he decided it was best to do it alone, and as quickly as possible. So he found himself holding an audience at Baker Street the next week. John was at work but the landlady had insisted on fixing them up a nice tea (why was everyone always serving him tea? Did he look as though he needed it?) in Sherlock's cluttered kitchen even though she was not, as she pointed out, his house keeper.

His brother was sitting in the chair by the fire, looking amazingly bored and playing with his phone. He was wearing that horrible purple shirt just to spite him. Ever since Mycroft told him it made him look like a french gigolo, he wore it as often as possible.

"I have news." he told him.

"Uprising in Korea?"

"No, um...Molly is pregnant."

Sherlock lowered his phone and gave Mycroft a very steady look. "And why are you telling me this?"

"Because I am the father."

"Bullshit." Sherlock declared, going back to his phone. At least he pretended his attention was on his phone. "What are you playing at Mycroft?"

"Miss Hooper and I had a brief tryst and..."

"Really? Then what color are her nipples? Pink? Magenta? Burgundy? How does she keep her pubic hair? Little...landing zone maybe?"

"SHERLOCK! Really, if you can't be mature about this..." he looked worriedly in to the kitchen but Mrs. Hudson so far seemed oblivious to their conversation.

"I'm perfectly capable of being mature. What I am incapable of is being blind. You aren't embarrassed by my questions. You. Just. Don't. Know. If you were her lover, you would."

He looked so pleased with himself. It made Mycroft want to lunge over there and rip the smug smile from his face. Didn't he realize that there were things more important than being right?

He slowly counted to ten in his head. "If you would stop to consider the facts for a moment, Sherlock, instead of acting like a child, you would see how perfectly reasonable this all is."

Sherlock did everything but stick his tongue out at him, but he was silent. When his brain had run it's course, he said, "You and Molly were not lovers. Everyone else might believe it, but not me." He steepled his fingers, "But why would you _want _everyone to believe it? It certainly does nothing for your reputation. Molly **is** pregnant, she's putting on weight like she is about to go into hibernation. So why is it that _you_ are claiming responsibility?..."

In his head, Mycroft kept track of exactly 117 seconds passing.

"...Oh, oh I see. **Fascinating**."

"So you understand why it must be me that is the father. Please tell me that you understand."

Sherlock eyed Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen and leaned forward in his chair, dropping his voice to a whisper. "You realize that it won't fool **him** of course."

"It might." Mycroft whispered back. "Or it may not even matter to him. But suppose it does. Suppose this is what makes him expose himself again. Suppose he returns. Don't you want for one of us to be there?"

"One of us." he scoffed.

"Yes, one of us. You chose your side at the pool."

"Fine." He sat back and swung his feet up over the arm of the chair. "I will be allowed unlimited access to the child."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Think about it. This child...well, forget the bit that's Molly...this child has the potential to be extraordinary. Imagine what I could have been like if I had the proper influences from the beginning!"

Mycroft didn't think he was referring to good nutrition, discipline and loving, supportive parents...

"This may be your best idea yet! Finally, you've done something smart Mycroft!"

Sherlock swung his feet around and stood up, calling loudly to Mrs. Hudson. "Guess what? I'm going to be an uncle!"

**A/N: Thanks to everyone for their follows and reviews, and always thanks to Roxanne-Michael for her help. Go read her fic, she has a much brighter world view and is also brilliant. But before you do that, drop a review if you enjoyed the new chapter. -hrlyqin**


	3. Chapter 3

**Dearest, chapter 3**

**A fanfiction by Hrlyqin**

**XXX**

It all happened very suddenly.

Molly had been wheeling an empty gurney back to it's little niche when she more or less ran it headlong into Neill Hester, who had been coming around the corner.

"Oh my goodness I'm sorry! Are you alright?"

"Um, fine, I think." he was rubbing his abdomen and poorly disguising the fact that he was in pain. Molly frowned and went over to him, lifting up his shirt so she could see the reddening skin for herself.

"No you should have it looked at...I'm so so sorry Neill."

"Don't worry about it. At least I won't have any trouble finding a doctor if I need one, right?"

She smiled and tried to accept his graciousness graciously, but she was all too aware that her ears were turning red enough to match his chest.

To make matters worse, he insisted in taking the gurney the rest of the way for her. As he was sliding it home, he nonchalantly said, "So I've been wondering, what are you doing on Friday?"

"You've been wondering...what I'm doing on Friday?"she repeated.

"I thought maybe you'd like to do something with me...if you're busy Friday, I'd accept Thursday, or Saturday..." his voice trailed off.

"I can't, I'm sorry." she apologized yet again.

"Ok then," he said in a very defeated tone.

"It's not that I don't like you..." she found herself explaining. "It's just that now isn't a good time for me. I've sort of got company. For the next 6 months or so." To clarify her point, she tapped on her still fairly trim stomach, and the look on his face let her know that he got it.

And that was how people at work found out.

Later, as she was brushing her hair out, she couldn't help giving herself a few mental kicks. Pregnant women could date if they wanted to. All the romantic comedies said so. She liked Neill enough, even if she didn't really know him that well, and how many invitations did she think she would get once the baby was actually here? So she felt foolish for rejecting him. But, as much as she tried, she couldn't seem to brush away the memory today's encounter had brought back.

_She hadn't hit him with a gurney, but with her shoe. _

_It had been a wet, soggy day. She was dog tired and sick of filling out paperwork. Mix that with just getting over a cold and she had been all but sleepwalking as she made her way to the exit. _

_The steady stream of wet feet had left little damp patches all over the floor. In her dazed state, she wandered right across one and went skidding to the floor. The next thing she knew, a strong hand was around her arm as her shoe connected with something solid and warm. Her rescuer had given a tiny grunt as he helped her upright. Molly had nailed him right in the leg. _

_She had begun to say she was sorry just as he started to ask if she was alright. It got them both laughing and he held on to her arm just a little bit longer. It was nice. _

_"Let's try this again, shall we?" he smiled beautifully. Whoever he was, he was gorgeous to begin with, but his smile just made it better. "Are you okay?" _

_"Yes. I should be. Are you?" she meant his leg. _

_"Yeah, no worries. I don't think it's really walking weather anyway. Fancy sharing a cab?"_

_"That would be great." She smiled back and tried not to physically jump up and down with excitement at the prospect of sharing a taxi with a handsome stranger. She was already mentally doing cart wheels. "I'm Molly, by the way." _

_He let go of her arm then, but it had only offer to offer her his hand. "Nice to meet you Molly. I'm Jim."_

The next week on the phone, Mycroft chided her gently. "You should have gone out. I wouldn't have minded, my hand to God."

"I know, I just didn't think it would be very fair to him, what with my condition and all."

"You know Molly, there are certain men who have somewhat of a fetish for mothers-to-be. This could be a very active season for you, if you wanted it to be."

"Mycroft! How do you even know something like that?"

"Oh, I'm sure it's something Sherlock told me." he said smoothly, making her laugh a little bit more. "So I will be bringing by some papers for you to sign tonight. Is seven convenient?"

Marveling at his ability to change gears so quickly, Molly said it was fine and hung up, leaving him to his surveillance reports.

He had been working on the theory that Moriarty might have had his humble beginnings in the Irish mafia, or at least with some of the political dissidents that country bred like rabbits. He had assigned a small, trusted staff to trying to track down some solid leads to further this, but so far it had been to no avail. He placed his head in his hands and was taking a minute just to wallow in lack of results when his assistant came in.

"More well wishings and glad tidings, sir." She waved the stack of envelopes she was carrying. More cards. The news of his impending fatherhood was bringing congratulations from all corners, which he had to admit did tickle his ego just a bit. He had received sentiments from David _and_ Tony.

"I'll be having a meeting with Molly after dinner tonight. Can you add it on to the schedule?"

"Is everything alright?" she asked as she leaned over next to him, successfully hunting and locating a particular paper off his desk as she set the cards before him.

"Just legal matters." He waved off their lack of importance. "I have some free time after that. Perhaps I could...stop by?" he asked leadingly.

"Sorry, I have plans."

Mycroft frowned at the fact that she was so obviously lying. He laid his fingers over hers pinning her hand to the desk. "If it's all this business with Molly, I thought you understood that I'm only keeping up appearances."

She gently extracted her hand from his and gave him her best bland professional smile. "So am I." she told him. "I'll just make sure there's no more post for you."

She exited the office with the grace and dignity only a truly beautiful woman can have when she is furious. This would definitely be something to deal with when he had the time. When would that be? Well, hopefully whilst he was still young and hearty enough to appreciate make-up sex. Maybe sometime this decade. If he was lucky. Thinking he might have had the right idea earlier, he put his head back in his hands.

xxx

Later, Mycroft considered talking to Molly about the incident, but thought better of it. She was a very sweet person but her charm lay in how simply she saw the world. He doubted her personal advice book included a chapter on what to do when your personal relationship turned back into a professional one without anyone asking you about it.

Besides, not only was Molly perplexed enough by the legal papers in front of her but she had also managed to touch upon the subject of his private life quite unwittingly.

She was on her sofa reading and rereading the document as if she could will herself to understand it's legalese. Finally she gave up and just asked him. "Why are you doing this?" She gestured with the papers.

"I want to make sure the child will be provided for, in the event of my death or otherwise, that he or she can go to any school that they like, or travel."

"But..." her voice dropped to a whisper even though they were alone. "It isn't _really_ your baby. You don't need to."

He shrugged, which he somehow made look dapper. "It looks good though, and seeing as I have no children of my own..."

"Why is that?" she interrupted. "You still could. I mean, you're smart and handsome and I'm sure you'll get married eventually and have babies. If that's what you want."

Mycroft considered spinning a story for her, but he decided to go with the truth. "No. Marriage maybe, but no children. My life is too complicated. I don't mean to impose a stigma on single parents, it is a life choice and some, of which I am sure you will be one, and I am going to help you all I can of course...but I think that if one chooses to marry and create a family, you should put a certain amount of time and effort into it, not just show up for Sunday meals and public events. I simply could not devote myself to it as it would deserve."

Molly thought about his statement for a long time. He could tell she was trying to figure out what to say by the way her fingers were knotting themselves endlessly. Finally, she settled on, "Your father worked for the government too, didn't he?"

"Oh, he had aspirations and ambition. Both kept him extremely busy. While I admire his drive in the professional arena, I think he might have been a perfect model of the stereotype; wealthy British father and so on. I wouldn't want to follow those footsteps. It is a blessing that Uncle Ainsley isn't so reluctant to pass on the Holmes name."

"Uncle Ainsley?" she laughed nervously. "I guess Stephen and Martin aren't really big in your family, are they?"

"I also have an Aunt Amarinth." he confided.

She laughed again and scribbled her signature on the forms. "Well, my mother was single as well. Dad wasn't in the picture a lot and it always felt like it was my fault. Not for you." she tapped her belly, talking to the unborn child within it. "I've just officially been bankrolled to spoil you rotten."

Molly made a cooing face and he was left to marvel that yes, she would be a wonderful parent. She would never regard her baby as a failure if they didn't make top grades, or use them as a weapon to get back at an unfaithful spouse. No, she was quite right, **not that baby.** He wondered if with the right combination of her unwavering love and his good finances, the child might actually turn out normal. He doubted it. But one could hope.

He pushed it out of his mind. The rest of their time that night was spent discussing the merits of this or that name. It wasn't until later, as he was making his way out of her building, that he dared to think again about any more serious subjects. Things like what his role in this child's life would be, how to keep up this game once there was a tiny person with real feelings involved.

It all happened very suddenly.

Lost in thought, Mycroft all but ran in to the man standing in front of the tenant mailboxes in the lobby. He had begun to apologize for his clumsiness when the man took off out the front door, his jacket flying out as he ran, revealing the gun tucked in his waistband.

Mycroft already had his phone out and was dialing when he saw that one of the boxes had been pried open. Upon closer inspection, he saw that it was Molly's mailbox the man had broken into.

And that was how he decided that the young Miss Hooper would be moving to a more secure location.

**AN: Thanks everyone for all your follows and reviews. More thanks to Roxanne-Michal who is my good luck charm (like a fanfiction troll doll) and faithful first reader. I apologize if this chapter seems a little bit less stunning than the others, had to get some info across. I'd love to hear where you guys think this is all going so please review! **


	4. Chapter 4

**DEAREST, chapter 4**

**A fanfiction by Hrlyqin**

**XXX**

"What about Hugo?"

"60% of all bouncers in London are named Hugo." Sherlock said boredly.

"Hmmm...Sharon? I've always thought Sharon was lovely."

"Sounds like a naughty school teacher to me."

"Calvin?"

"Good idea. Millions of fashionable Brits will have your child's name on their arse."

"Juliet?" she suggested almost feebly.

"Because no one named Juliet ever did anything to upset their parents when they were a teenager."

"Fine." she told him firmly. "I don't know why I asked you anyway. I wish Mycroft were here."

"Unfortunately, he followed that trail of doughnuts right in to my trap." he fired back at her. In truth, Mycroft was overseeing the installation of some very sensitive security measures in Molly's new house today that he had to be present for. Which was why Sherlock had called and changed the appointment to this morning. He would never admit his curiosity about today's exam but he didn't plan on missing it.

Molly made a groaning noise and put her hand over her now rounded stomach. Sherlock gave her a pointed look that somehow conveyed interest without concern.

"Kicking again." she grimaced.

"Well since the fetus is now 18 gestational weeks old, kicking is a healthy developmental sign that the pregnancy is progressing..." He stopped speaking in shock and horror when Molly abducted his hand and put it on her belly. He felt a little waving motion (like the water hitting you in a bath) and yanked his appendage back, glaring at her.

"That was uncalled for." he hissed.

In the doctor's office as they prepared, Sherlock had his revenge by asking about Down Syndrome and spina bifida. Dr. Connor had to politely cut him off by asking him to leave while Molly changed, and then only let him back in when it was time to start. He got himself resettled while the doctor was spreading goo on her belly.

"How have you been feeling, Molly?" the doctor asked.

"Not sleeping a lot." she answered. "It's been kicking me senseless."

"Well, you're about 20 weeks in, so kicking is a healthy developmental sign that the pregnancy is progressing normally." she informed her, and Molly shot Sherlock a glare. "OK, are we ready?"

The doctor began the ultrasound, rubbing the wand over Molly. Sherlock was silent and watching the images on the monitor intently while Dr. Connor narrated.

"Fetus length is good. It looks like our earlier due date estimate was right. Heart looks good and strong. Brain is coming along nicely. Everything looks normal."

Those were absolutely the best words she could have said to her. No cleft palate or two heads or cloven hooves. In her excitement, Molly kidnapped Sherlock's hand again but he was too absorbed to even notice. She was still grasping it firmly when the doctor made the final pronouncement.

"Congratulations Molly. It's a boy."

Molly could hardly wait to call Mycroft after they left the office. She was surprised when Sherlock informed her that he was in fact at her house, but sure enough when the taxi pulled up, there was Mycroft's car. They found him in the kitchen speaking to someone Molly didn't know. A workman maybe? In any case, he cut his conversation short and immediately focused his attention on her when she came in.

"Molly." He held her hands and kissed both her cheeks. "Well, don't keep me in suspense."

"Boy."

He squeezed her hands and then her entire body. "A boy. A son. Wonderful." He did genuinely look happy, but it didn't quite reach his eyes, Molly could see that. His mind was really someplace else and she tried not to take it personally, even as he turned her by the shoulders and handed her off to the stranger.

"Molly, this is Sebastian Barron. He comes highly recommended. I've had him put in some little security extras to keep you safe. Why don't you let him show you around?"

Molly let herself be pulled away and it wasn't until she was well out of earshot that Sherlock started speaking. The first words out of his mouth were a scathing imitation of Mycroft's excitement. "Ooh, a boy. A son. Mummy would be so happy." He rolled his eyes. When Mycroft didn't respond to his baiting, Sherlock went over to the refrigerator and began surveying its contents, just to have something to do as he spoke. "You're no fun anymore. Have I told you that lately?"

"I have a lead." he replied.

"Yes, I had figured as much. Are you going to share?"

"An agent of mine turned up some information about a man named Aiden Beecher. We think this may be Moriarty's original identity."

"I'm not interested in his past, Mycroft. It's his future that concerns me more."

"Don't be so narrow minded. His past is the key to understanding him, figuring out his connections, his allies, his hiding places. It's the first step to everything."

Sherlock frowned. He hated it when Mycroft was right. "So what do we know about Beecher?"

"Father was IRA, involved in any number of violent political actions. Not much is known about the mother except that she was raped and murdered in the late 80's by a group of men on holiday from Germany. For various reasons, they were never charged although the police were fairly certain of their guilt. Within a decade, all four of the men plus two associates of theirs died in a spectacularly violent fashion."

"That's where he began." Sherlock said, thinking of Carl Powers.

"I believe it might be yes. I may need to do some traveling soon, to follow up on this. I would need you to keep after Molly. Unless you would rather come along." he offered.

"No, I can't leave John that vulnerable."

Mycroft thought that would be his answer.

**xxxxxx**

He had agreed to meet his agent later that night at her hotel room. He would never get over how easy it was to disguise espionage as a torrid sexual affair. Surely enough, he got several looks as he rode up the elevator and knocked on her door.

Violet Kessler was a good agent for many reasons. She was clever, she found improvisation easy and she had proven herself trustworthy on many occasions. But her best quality of all was that she looked nothing like a government spy at all. She looked like she owned a cupcake bakery or nannied for a rich couple. Hers was not a face of intrigue and subterfuge.

But it was just a veneer. Mycroft had barely shut the door before she was pushing files, police reports and surveillance photos at him.

"Violet, please. Give me a moment to digest." He begged her, sitting on the bed and beginning to review the intel. While he read, she fixed them drinks at the minibar and sat down next to him, although she did not speak until he had finished reading.

"So, did I do good?" she asked.

"No, but you certainly did **well**." he corrected. "There were three other agents on this and they turned up nothing."

"I bet they were all men too, that's why."

He chose not to think too carefully about that. "I want you to follow up on the connections in Australia and the continent. Try to find another tight spot he's been in and see where he fled to before. I also am going to need more detailed information on these men from Galway. You're certain he was involved in orchestrating their crimes?"

She nodded. "But they never said a word about him. Did 7 years of hard labour each when they could have sung their way to freedom."

"The fact that they didn't is probably why they are still alive."

She took the file and selected one of ths pictures. "I'll start with this one. His wife just left him. He likes young and I can pass for 16 or 17. Think I'll go say hello."

Again, Mycroft tried to ignore the ramifications of that but found he couldn't. "No. On second thought, I want you in America. I'll go to Galway myself."

She laughed. "Are you going to be my Dad too now? Is fatherhood catching?"

"I'm only trying to look out for you."

Without saying a word, she moved his umbrella first, and then the files, pushing everything off the bed. Then her busy fingers started working on his tie.

"Violet,"

"I thought you wanted to look out for me, Mycroft. I thought you wanted to take care of me." she said as she released the tie and tossed it away.

"Yes but at this moment," he was cut off again as her tiny mouth kissed his.

"Don't worry. I won't tell that assistant of yours if you don't."

**AN: You've read this far- you get a cookie! Please drop me a review and let me know what you think. Always thanks to Roxanne-Michal. Keep reading!**


	5. Chapter 5

**DEAREST, Chapter Five**

**A fanfiction by Hrlyqin, based on intellectual properties owned by its respective creators. **

"So," she planted gentle kisses on his forehead as she pulled the sheets back over them, "I guess I will be going to Galway."

Mycroft looked at her bare shoulders, her hair on the pillow and her post-coital glow. He felt a little old now, old enough to know better certainly, and tremendously duped. "Was all of that just so you could get your way?"

"All of it? No. Maybe only...that much." She held her fingers about an inch apart. "But it does seem to have worked."

"Alright, Galway. But I want daily reports. Detailed daily reports, and if it is something you are going to be ashamed of me knowing then perhaps you might think of not doing it in the first place."

"I will definitely consider it." she answered obligingly. "Are you leaving right away?"

"I thought I might stay for a bit." he mumbled, already feeling the waves of sleep gently lapping at him. Violet curled up against him and the smell of her skin, their sweat mingled together, was practically a narcoleptic. Within five minutes, he was out like a light. Unfortunately for him, his sleep was not dreamless.

_"The faculty conference is on Tuesday and I thought that if you spoke to him..." he was saying. But he was not really himself. He was a pudgy, ineffectual teenager again. The fact that he found his consciousness trapped in the memory of all he had left behind was enough to qualify this as a nightmare. _

_"Mycroft." Father interrupted harshly, "Do you think my Dad ever spoke up for me? No. The man couldn't. Even. Read. I had to make my own way. That's what men do." _

_With that, the newspaper snapped back up like a curtain, sealing the elder Holmes off from his wife and children. Sherlock was experimenting with his food. Mother had a patient's file next to her plate and was trying to read as she ate, not listening to the exchange between father and son. She wasn't going to come to his defense. Mycroft suddenly wasn't as hungry for breakfast as he had been a moment ago. _

_All he had done was ask. _

_If he could get into that class, certainly the right people would notice. Then Father would be forced to notice him as well. Damnable irony that he needed Father's help to get in. _

_Maybe if he tried again. _

_"It's just that Professor Schulty thinks I have a real mind for the course but it's intended for older students, so he can't simply put me in it. I am sure if you spoke to the head master, he would make an exception." _

_"Don't bother. He isn't even listening." _

_"Sherlock, I'm speaking to Father right now." _

_"I know." Sherlock savagely speared a sausage with his fork and devoured it. "And Father's not listening. Do you want me to prove it? My father," he said loudly, "is a lazy stupid bastard who hides behind his books and his papers so no one will know what an ignorant shit-eating troll he really is."_

_Sherlock leaned forward, waiting to see who he got a reaction out of, but sadly his initial deduction had been correct. Father wasn't listening and thus did not hear the rather accurate description. It was Mother who had reached the end of her rope. _

_"Boys please! I have exactly an hour to figure out how to convince a mentally unstable divorcee that her house isn't trying to murder her. I need to concentrate!"_

_After that, breakfast was finished in relative silence, Mother smoking and reading while the children finished their plates. The end of the meal was official when Father neatly folded his paper and set it down. He rose from the table and kissed their mother goodbye for the day, a quick bird peck on the cheek. _

_"I have a meeting tonight, won't be home for dinner." _

_Mother rolled her eyes and turned her head away from his kiss, blowing the smoke from her cigarette out in a passive aggressive puff. "Mmmm. Make sure you shower before you come home. You know I how I hate the smell." _

_Their father made a disgusted, defeated noise and left. Only after he had gone did Sherlock ask Mother what she meant._

_"Mummy, why should Father shower before he comes home?"_

_She got up, clearing the dishes for Helena to clean later. "Because your father is going to have sex with the waitress from the coffee shop by his office. They arranged it on Friday. The least he can do is shower. I cannot stand the smell of cheap hotel sheets." she explained. _

_"But why..." he said slowly, trying to work it out on his own, "why would he do that?"_

_"Because dear heart, **it's what men do**. Now I've got my session this morning with Miss Shoat and her endless phobias. Can you two keep busy on your own?" _

_At that, Mycroft wandered off to his room and turned on the telly. Nothing really good on at this time of day but it was better than silence. He got quite lost in self-pity until he heard the approach of tiny feet. _

_Sherlock must had gotten bored already. _

_Sure enough, a head full of unruly dark hair popped into his doorway. Without being invited, Sherlock joined him in languishing on the bed, clutching that ragged stuffed bee he was so attached to._

_"I don't understand about sex." he said in a confused but quite logical tone. _

_"Sherlock you're six years old." _

_"So? Don't you dare tell me I will understand when I'm older. Don't even think about it. If you say it, I will bite you." _

_"Fine. But you will."_

_Thinking out loud more than replying, Sherlock went on. "Mummy is always telling us about her patients and saying how men are their problem. Mummy is having sex with Miss Barrister. I heard them talking after my violin lesson. Father is having sex with at least three women that Mummy has told us about. So, Mummy and Daddy don't like each other and have sex with other people. Why don't they get a divorce like the fraidy lady?"_

_He must mean Miss Shoat. "I don't know. It would look bad to Father's colleagues. Maybe they stay together for us?" _

_"That's idiotic." _

_"Well, sometimes people are idiots. Can't you go play?" _

_"Booooooorrrred. Do you think one of those detective movies is on? You could do the voices for me." _

_Whether or not it was intentional, he made Mycroft smile. The day looked a little brighter. They flipped around the channels until they found one of 'those' detective movies, black and white with a private eye in a Panama hat and a damsel in a lot of distress and not a lot of clothing. Sherlock eagerly muted the sound and looked expectantly at his older brother. _

_As he aged, Mycroft would realize how terrible his American detective accent was. But on that day, he was quite pleased with it. He waited until the actor in the muted movie started to speak. _

_"It was hot in the city." he said, improvising as he went. "Hot like a summer night that never ends. Hot like the dishy blonde sitting in my office. She was trouble, um, blast, give me a second...OK, she was trouble served three different ways and I was hungry. She said she needed help in the worst way, she knew her husband was running around on her and would leave her with nothing unless someone could catch the dirty rat. Luckily I was in the rat catching business."_

_Sherlock laughed. _

**XXXXXX**

Mycroft awoke to the irritating buzz of his phone. He hadn't slept long and he didn't shake it off easily. As he picked up, he managed more of a grumble than a hello.

"Mycroft?" The voice on the other end sounded frayed as well but for entirely different reasons. It sounded frantic. "Mycroft you were right. I got...I..we got her to the hospital but there was so much blood. Please, you need to get here as soon as you can."

**AN: Thanks to Roxanne-Michal for being my extra eyes on the story. Thanks to everyone who has read this far along and is still going. What do you think of Mycroft's memory/ dream? The horrible elder Holmes? Even if it isn't a romance, are you Team Anthea or Team Violet? How much do you f%$*ing hate cliffhangers? Drop me a review and let me know -hrlyqin**


	6. Chapter 6

**Dearest, Chapter 6**

**A fanfiction by Hrlyqin**

Mycroft awoke in bed alone but still with the smell of sex all over him. He reached out for her but found only sheets. This caused him to stir, propping himself up on his elbows and looking befuddled until he heard the shower running. Ah, that explained it.

Reclining again, he replayed the previous hours in his head, not sure how he felt about his actions. True, he had not exactly initiated things but that was no excuse. He was senior to her in the chain of command.

Very senior.

He was old enough to be her father.

No. Not really. But he was old enough to be her father's younger brother, at the very least.

Still, she was an adult and free to do whatever she liked. He certainly hadn't taken advantage. All he had done was respond to the advances of someone who thought he was clever and dapper and worthwhile of her time (truly, more people should think that way). In return, he had enjoyed himself with a woman who was lovely, intelligent and amusing. So there was nothing to feel guilty about.

And yet, guilty he felt. No great mystery as to why. If he was being honest with himself, there was already an amusing, intelligent and lovely woman he was enamored with. But they were not exactly on friendly terms at the moment.

Relationships were so complicated. It would be easier for him to stage a coupe than to sort out him personal suddenly pounding, he got dressed and slipped away while Violet was still in the shower. It was not exactly his most dignified moment.

None of this was made any better by his assistant's version of the silent treatment, the start of Violet's extremely detailed and vaguely smutty reports or his brother's annoying deductions when he visited him the next week.

Mycroft had barely set down his umbrella when Sherlock began with it.

"How lovely of you to visit, given your current personal turmoil."

"Sherlock please. The idea of you being my conscious is laughable."

"No, what's laughable is how many beautiful women you seem to pull. What's your secret? It certainly isn't your personality...do you drug them? Because if you have been holding out on me..." He finished his statement with a shake of his head.

"Jealous? I know that interpersonal relationships are not exactly your strong suit."

"Yes well clearly I am in the presence of a master. Did your surveillance tell you that your buxom secretary has taken up with a chef. A Frenchman."

"Glad to see your powers of deduction aren't going completely to waste, now that the police aren't letting you in on cases."

His brother sneered. "You're looking well fed these days. Putting on some sympathy weight, perhaps?"

A low blow, even for him. "And you, my dear brother, need a haircut, or is it your intention to look so much like a cross-dresser?"

"Hmph, point for Mycroft."

The brothers both whipped their head in the direction of the stairs, watching as John emerged from them. His look of supreme disapproval was enough to match their glares.

"You're supposed to be on the same side, remember? Seems to me there must be something better to do than sit here going on like catty teenagers."

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably, both because Dr. Watson was of course right but also because he wanted to declare that he hadn't started it, which would only further prove his point. He settled for merely ignoring Sherlock for the moment and speaking to the other man. "You're rather dressed up. Big plans for the evening?"

John was just managing to knot his tie. "Party with Sarah, if I can trust you lot not to start throwing chairs at each other while I'm out."

Mycroft chortled in a socially acceptable manner and Sherlock disregarded the question entirely. Figuring that was the best he was the best he was going to get, John told them not to wait up and quickly exited the line of fire.

As soon as the door swung shut, Mycroft remarked, "Speaking of relationships..."

"Are you here for any particular **reason**?"

"Yes. I'm going to be away for a week, perhaps two. I'll need you and John to look in on Molly for me."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "She's a grown woman Mycroft."

"She's a valuable asset, Sherlock. Besides, tomorrow I'll ask John as well and he won't refuse, so you don't really have a choice."

Mycroft felt he had quite earned himself another point until Sherlock asked him if he was going alone.

**XXX**

His decision to investigate possible leads in Los Angeles had been the smartest one he had made in awhile (and that was saying something). Granted, he wasn't much for legwork, but it wasn't overly taxing and if afforded him a chance to clear his head and focus on the game. He made polite small talk with Mr. Temple, the operative accompanying him. He sent only professional communication to his assistant. He did not have her new boyfriend followed. He emailed Molly short missives and found her replies, telling him how John went linen shopping with her or their bond as fellow bloggers, were lighthearted and relaxing. Apart from the bare light bulb questioning of criminal lowlifes, it was the best vacation he had been on in years.

Sadly it didn't lead to much. Moriarty didn't have any association with these people that he could discern. All of them seemed rather primitive, not of his caliber. Also, despite their reputation with the US government, there was not a rat among them.

Violet was having much better luck. Apart from her seeming determination to unseat him with lurid details about her exploits, she was making some real headway in tracking one of Aiden Beecher's childhood friends, believed to be his partner in some of his earlier endeavours. Since it was becoming clear that this man had also disappeared around the same time as Beecher, it was very possible that he too had assumed a new identity and may even still work with the creature known as Jim Moriarty.

Mycroft polished through her daily report (she was getting into the game as well, there were 12% less flirtatious remarks compared to yesterday's communication). She had made contact with a retired law enforcement officer who didn't mind sharing his old files with a pretty girl who hung on his every word. Files and pictures.

Good job Kessler. Her Christmas bonus would be a nice one indeed.

The first few pictures were candid surveillance pictures of Aiden Beecher. Younger, more fair haired and stout, but this was Moriarty. Mycroft felt an audible click as that piece of the puzzle fell into place.

James Moriarty.

Aiden Beecher.

An angry young man taking out his revenge of those who wronged him. Turning away from the law when it left him robbed of justice. Had it really begun with something so human? So relatable?

Framed in those terms, nearly anyone walking the street had the potential to be a criminal mastermind.

Considering that concept, Mycroft had never felt more frightened in his life.

He continued looking at the photos, even as his mind raced with what the next steps were. Contacting any living family, getting school records, seeing if there had ever been a psychological examination...but subtly, carefully. They needn't show their entire hand. This other fellow, if they could find him, could be a font of information.

Mentally, he switched channels. Began reviewing the information he had on Moriarty's associate.

Michael S. Ryan, Jr.

Father Michael S. Ryan, Sr. , deceased. Automobile accident. Mother Virginia Ryan, nee Thurlowe, deceased. Drug overdose.

Michael S. Ryan, Jr : charges for weapons, drugs, assault. A grab bag of petty crimes. But he always managed to slip the noose when it came to making the charges stick.

Like he had someone to protect him. Like he was important enough to protect.

Or, inversely, like he had the influence or contacts to escape punishment, influence which he might have extended to his close friends.

Finally, he found a picture of Beecher with Ryan.

That was when everything in his brain stopped moving.

The world went black, for a moment. Precious seconds wasted.

Then it started again. Frantic now. How could he have missed it? Who had given him clearance? Whose head would roll for this?

He sprang up from his laptop, his body finding new speed, and grabbed his phone. He dialed on instinct, picking the best choice without letting himself think about it.

Sherlock would ignore his call.

If God was with him, John wouldn't.

He didn't mince word when the man answered, he simply began firing instructions. "Dr. Watson, listen carefully and don't interrupt. Molly is in danger. Go to her immediately. Take your gun. Moriarty sent someone. I'll be sending help, but she trusts you. Keep her calm. Call me as soon as she is secure."

He hung up and started making more calls, throwing items into his suitcase as he talked. By the time everything was arranged, the only thing not packed was his laptop.

The picture was there in the screen, taunting him. Michael S. Ryan, friend of Aiden Beecher. Friend of Moriarty.

Sebastian.

The very person he had put in charge of Molly's home security. Who had passed all clearances and checks without a single red flag. He hadn't imagined how deep the corruption of this criminal network could run.

He had been betrayed.

But there was no time, no time to think about that, no time to think of anything. He didn't even wait for Temple to return before he left. He got to the air field without even realizing it, flashed his papers at the various desks and got onto the private jet he had arranged. Only after he was in the air did the adrenaline in his system begin to ebb. He felt more weary than he had ever in his life.

He had thought himself a player in the game. Really, he was nothing more than a pawn.

If Molly Hooper and her child were taken or harmed, it would be his fault. He was a failure, just as his father had known he would be.

Somehow, Mycroft fell into a fitful sleep just after takeoff. He didn't know how long it lasted, but he was awoken by the buzzing of his phone.

Bleary, he reached across the seats to his attache case, grabbing his phone and ignoring the glare from the steward.

Mycroft?" The panic in John's voice awoke him and brought him back to the present. "Mycroft you were right. I got... I..we got her to the hospital but there was so much blood. Please, you need to get here as soon as you can."

"I'm on my way."

**AN: Thanks for all the reviews, keep them coming. Extra special thanks to Roxanne-Michal for complying to my 'read this NOW' request. To be continued! -hrlyqin**


	7. Chapter 7

**DEAREST**

**A fanfiction by Hrlyqin, based on intellectual properties owned by their respective creators**

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

_"Miss Hooper?"_

_"Yes?" She stood cautiously behind the partially opened door. _

_"Do you remember me? Sebastian. I showed you the set-up here." He smiled at her reassuringly. "An alarm was triggered. I'm just here to check on your safety, ma'am."_

_Subtly, he nodded his head just a bit. She unconsciously mimicked the gesture, nodding a bit in return. That's right, he thought, just let me in._

_"Alarm? No. I mean, I haven't noticed anything, and as you can see I'm okay."_

_"Right. Well, may I come in? I'd feel better if I made sure everything was alright." Again, he smiled and it disarmed her thoroughly. _

_"Of course, come in. Oh and please, call me Molly." _

_Ah, now he saw it. What the boss saw , what he had liked so much. That desperate quality. Even after playing house with a mass murdering criminal genius, she was still so desperate for love and approval that a wink and a smile got him inside her fortress of solitude. _

_It was enough to make him feel guilty. _

_Almost. _

_"Would you like some tea maybe?" she asked, walking ahead of him, passing a hidden camera now broadcasting footage from last week. _

_He slipped his fingers into the pocket of his coat, letting then survey the contents: smelling salts for if she passed out too soon. Phone with a good camera so the boss would get nice footage. The knives were in another pocket but he could feel their weight against his breast, impatient. His hand closed around a capped syringe; just enough of the drug to knock her out and get her in position so the real fun could start. _

_"Tea would be lovely."_

.

.

.

Molly Hooper was going to die.

She lay sprawled across her living room rug, blood leaking from her body into thick puddles around her. Her whole body ached like it was being slowly roasted. She just wanted to sleep now. Moving had taken the last of her energy, but it had seemed so important, she had started in the hallway but had crawled in here...why? She couldn't quite remember anymore. She felt so tired.

The man was gone. He had placed the steel blade against her throat and she had just long enough to note that it was _warm _from stabbing her so many time already before it was roughly pulled away, leaving her neck unscathed.

But there was already so much damage. Like a smart dog, she knew when to lay down and die. In what she thought were her last moments, she didn't pray for rescue, she didn't mourn her life or fear the judgment to come. All she could think was '_maybe it's better this way'_, and then she thought nothing.

It had been noises, the sound of others approaching, that had made her attacker abandon her. But Molly didn't realize this until she felt gentle hands on her, touching and then shaking her as if to rouse her from a nap. She made a whimpering noise in response.

"Molly? It's John. I'm here now, and you're going to be okay, but I need you to wake up. Can you...Sherlock? _Sherlock you bastard! I need some help here!_..." he paused for a moment to utter a string of curses under his breath before turning his attention back to her. "I'm still here. If you open up your eyes you'll see Sherlock doing a wonderful impression of himself and running off. Can you try for me?"

She again made the effort and after a few minutes blinked them open. Everything looked darkened, like it was behind a curtain, but in the center where it was the brightest was John and he was rewarding her with a beatific look. "Good now. Good girl. Here, squeeze my hand...hard as you can...okay. I've rung for an ambulance and they're on their way, so we're going to sit and wait. Okay?"

Since he seemed to want it, she squeezed his hand again. It felt feverishly warm in her own. "The man..." she whispered.

"Sherlock went after him. Don't worry. Let's just keep talking. Have you thought anymore about names?"

"I like Toby." She was so cold. The blanket from the sofa had been tossed over her, had John done that? When?

"Toby's good. Any others?" he prompted her.

"Jamie..."

He kept her awake and speaking until the ambulance arrived. Even when she was loaded up, he refused to be divested of her and rode along, keeping out of the way while they worked on her. It was only when they wheeled her into Emergency that he left her side, but a glimpse of his face through the glass door as they took her away said he wasn't happy about it.

John Watson, army doctor, had watched her go in the safety of others and then promptly found the nearest restroom and vomited until his stomach was empty. He washed his face and let the cool water of the sink run over his wrists until he felt calm enough to call Mycroft. After that, he vomited bile.

Alone and left to his own devices, he went to the waiting room to pace. He had been treading carpet for more than a few hours when Sherlock finally showed up.

If John was angry about Molly being taken away by the other doctors, Sherlock was seething about the loss of the trail. He had chased the man from Molly's house into the park, fully aware of when Mycroft's people joined him. He was going around a corner when the man disappeared into a stand of trees. Sherlock suspected a tunnel or hidden passage of some sort but the dark moonless night left him fumbling blindly. He caught his foot in a rough bank of rocks and tumbled sharply, hearing the crack of bones and an impact like a fist on his chest as he fell. He had freed himself but his mobility was severely reduced. Although he attempted to continue scouring the area, he could not walk or support his own weight. He was reduced to leaning against a tree and directing the three operatives Mycroft sent with him (he suspected there were several more at Molly's home) about where to look and what to take note of. Feeling utterly castrated, he finally allowed one of them to escort him to the hospital.

He half staggered in to the waiting area, using the wall and anything else to hold his body upright. John was there, looking anxious

(_over four hours and no news. Undoubtedly, severe internal injuries, bleeding. Pregnancy complicating medical matters, the doctor would wish to proceed cautiously to prevent a lawsuit)_

and exhausted. There was a flicker of relief on his face before it was replaced with aggressive irritation.

"Lovely of you to show back up." John said. "Now that everything is taken care of."

"I was in pursuit of a criminal, John." he said evenly.

"She was _dying_ in my hands! I look over my shoulder and you've...run off...!"

"In pursuit of a criminal." he repeated. "The man was fleeing, with valuable information and a tangible connection to Moriarty. You had Molly and there is no one I would trust more to help her. What good would I have done, exactly, staying with you?"

"That's not the point."

"Well if it comforts you, I will not be giving chase to anyone for the foreseeable future." He stumbled his way into the nearest chair.

"Oh God, you're hurt."

"Clearly my superior mental prowess is rubbing off on you."

"Don't be a twat. What happened? Let me see your ankle."

As John began tender ministrations Sherlock felt something (wounded pride, frustration) uncoil a bit and he remarked jokingly "Perhaps I should get treatment from a doctor without so much personal malice towards me."

John agreed but for much different reasons and Sherlock was soon carted off as well. John spent the rest of the night circulating between the two of them. Molly was put in an observation room and Sherlock was knocked out on painkillers over a broken rib and cracked tibia (or possibly because the staff just didn't feel like dealing with him). When Mycroft arrived just before noon, John was napping on an extremely uncomfortable looking row of chairs.

As much as he hated to, Mycroft woke him. John opened his eyes and the two men regarded each other.

John looked like he had spent the night kneeling in blood, racing around a hospital and then curling up to give into utter bone-weary exhaustion in the quietest corner he could find.

Mycroft looked like he had been to hell and back. Still, he managed a polite smile. "Dr. Watson."

"Mycroft." He rubbed his eyes and gave half yawn. "Molly's recovering. She had nine stab wounds, but they missed anything major, like he was...playing with her, making them. She lost a lot of blood but I think she'll be okay, now that she's through the worst of it. I'm not...not so sure about the baby. I'm sorry."

"No." Mycroft shook his head. "Not at all. I shudder to think what would have happened if you had arrived any later." He twirled the handle of his umbrella absently, a rather blank look on his face, then sat down as John sat up and scooched over. Silence fell between them for a minute, maybe two, like Mycroft had forgotten his lines.

"They've got an excellent neonatal department here, I've heard." John said.

"Do you do a lot of research into that type of thing?"

"No. No. Just trying to make you feel better, I guess."

"I'm fine."

"Yeah, and I know what it's like to say you're just bloody fine when you're really not."

"I was only thinking about my mother."

"Your mother?" John asked, not sure he followed (he usually didn't try when a Holmes was involved).

"Yes. When she died, she had been ill for a very long time. I thought that I was prepared for it. I had plenty of time to work through my emotions over the event before it ever took place. And yet, when she was gone the pain was as raw and shattering as if it had been a horrible surprise."

"Molly's not going to die. Your son isn't going to die."

"No, I know the statistical likelihood is in our favour now. I only wonder if there are some things you can never be ready for, no matter how much you try to anticipate them."

He recovered from his ruminations after perhaps 78 seconds and said, "My assistant is outside with a car. Go home, Dr. Watson. I'll take over from here."

"Are you...sure you'll be alright?"

"Hmm? Yes. Just an exceptionally long night, as I am sure you would agree."

"Right, yes. I'll just go home, grab a change of clothes maybe."

Mycroft nodded and sent John away, all but willing the man out of his presence by sheer force of personality. Now it was his turn to circulate, between Molly's room and his phone in the waiting room.

Molly, although frightened surely, would be fine. She would live. The child would live.

They had found a small cave in the park that came out a few miles south near a bicycling path. Recent tracks seem to indicate that is where this Sebastian made his escape. He had not been spotted by any camera in London and had not been near a railway station, airport or border checkpoint. **Yet**. Mycroft had to believe he would not slip through their net. He simply had to.

But he could not shake the impotent feeling of inadequacy that hung over this entire situation. He had once heard (although he couldn't remember where), _Live with a man forty years. Share his house, his meals, speak on every subject. Then, tie him up, and hold him over the volcano's edge. On that day, you will finally meet the man. _Mycroft felt like they had all been held over the volcano on this day, and he was gravely disappointed in what he saw of himself and others.

The hubris.

He was so lost in thought that he barely noticed his brother hobble towards him and sit down in the seat next to his. Mycroft grunted a hello and Sherlock grunted back, sliding down to a more comfortable position.

"Crutches. You'll be insufferable."

"Insufferable? Doesn't sound like me."

"The people I sent..."

"Found a trail where our man made some clever escape. If I'd been there, I could have found it sooner."

"Unfortunately, you were doing your best impersonation of Dick Van Dyke."

"Spare me your sexual humour."

"No, Sherlock. Dick Van Dyke was an American...dear lord, you're as high as a kite." This was all he needed.

"If I were high as a kite I would be airbourne. No. I have merely been given a generous amount of painkillers by the generous nursing staff." He chuckled a little bit and Mycroft got up, disgusted. He would go visit Molly. He got almost entirely to her room before he felt his pockets and then cursed and turned around.

He found Sherlock waiting, holding Mycroft's phone out to him. Clearly, the giggling inebriant had been an act. His brother was at his most calculating right now.

"Here, take it. Now I am properly caught up on the intelligence. Just in case you planned on keeping me out of the loop."

Mycroft snatched it back angrily. He was the second person to be overwhelmed with a desire to break the smirking jaw of Sherlock Holmes in this particular waiting room in a 24 hour period. But Mycroft dug into his self control and merely walked away, phone back in his possession.

"Who is Mary Russell?" Sherlock called out after him.

Mycroft turned back around.

"On your phone is a voice mail. Rerouted, obviously, from another phone number, so it involves a covert operation, not someone merely calling your phone. The message requests Mr. Donovan, I assume that is you, call immediately regarding your niece Mary Russell. Now, since it is logistically impossible for my only sibling to have a niece I am not aware of, who is Mary Russell?"

Mycroft flicked through possible answers, like changing channels on a TV. He settled for the truth, Sherlock would only be able to guess anyway, and he was so very tired of games right now.

"Mary Russell was the alias of an operative in Galway in on the hunt with us. She turned in the Beecher intelligence to me last night, including our friend Sebastian."

Sherlock waited for him to continue. Mycroft sat back down next to him. Defeated. "I received the voicemail just as my plane touched down. She was shot, shortly after turning in her last report. She died."

After a prolonged period of thought, Sherlock said, "I suppose that makes it personal for you as well."

Mycroft turned to him, aghast. How could he be so intelligent but so ignorant? "Moriarty and his associates tried to murder my brother. They strapped a bomb to your closest companion. It was already personal to me."

"Then what has changed?"

"I blame Moriarty for what he did to you, and John, and Molly. For this, I blame myself."

**AN: If you've read this far, drop a review and let me know what you think. This chapter was the most difficult for me, thank goodness Roxanne-Michal gave me excellent notes. Hope you've enjoyed, it'll only get better from here. **

**Also, the quote Mycroft cannot attribute is from the 'War Stories' episode of Firefly.**


	8. Chapter 8

**DEAREST**

**A Sherlock fanfiction by Hrlyqin**

**Chapter Eight**

'Run Rabbit' was a term used within certain high ranking circles. It generally described middle aged masters of the universe deciding to eschew the comforts of their offices and do a little wet work. This was usually proceeded by a growing fascination with James Bond pictures and some kind of terrorist act. It happened a lot in '05 and '07.

Mycroft Holmes was going to run rabbit, if he could get away with in. But first, he needed permission.

In general, Mycroft answered to very few people. This was because he was more of a sidelines player than anything else, just helping people arrange their coupes, bribes and espionage. A consulting politician, if you will.

But if you planned on making a run into a country not on good terms with England and cut a bloody swath to your target, you needed permission from someone high up first. Someone who could make arrangements with foreign intelligence. Not really help you, more to make sure no one stood in your way.

If you got it into your head to do things like that without permission, you were likely to find that head no longer attached to anything significant.

Mycroft's contact for permission in these matters was a gentleman called Mr. Mattigan.

If you asked John Watson about his first encounter with Mycroft, he would describe the phones ringing, the cameras moving, the so perfectly staged meeting. He would give the general impression of someone powerful enough to play games with others, showy enough to know the importance of appearance and just quiet, sane and reasonable enough to be very dangerous.

Mycroft felt a strong kinship for John right now. For his life he did not want to do this. He did not want to have this conversation. He did not want to go on the hunt. He wanted to go into the den and pour himself a stiff drink and forget about the whole ugly matter.

But he didn't really have a choice. Not as he saw it.

So he waited until Lindley had departed for the evening. He went into the study with his laptop. He made sure that the curtains were drawn. He powered up the computer and entered a particular URL. When the page had loaded, Mycroft withdrew from his pocket the slip of paper with a single word scrawled on it. He held the paper up to the screen and waited.

He had enough time to again think about a drink before the landline started ringing. Mycroft set down the laptop to pick it up.

"Hello?"

"Hello."

"Hope I didn't catch you at a bad time." he joked.

"The only bad time is if you are wasting my time."

Just business talk then, aright. "You viewed the report I submitted?"

"Yes. Sad. What do you require of me?"

"Leave to take action."

"You are not a man of action. We have plenty of those. Why not arrange for one of them to take care of it?"

He sighed. "I don't trust anyone else to take care of it properly."

"We cannot offer you resources."

"I know."

"We cannot offer you protection."

"I know."

"If you are caught, this agency as well as the British government will disavow any knowledge of your plans."

"I am aware."

"And you are certain?"

"I am."

"Then go run your rabbit, Mr. Holmes."

"GONE?" What do you mean, he's **gone**?"

"He had business to take care of, Molly."

"Don't you..." she struggled to get up out of her hospital bed, one hand clutching her stomach and the other hand wagging a finger at the interloper. "Don't you call me Molly. It's Miss Hooper to you. Don't act like you're better than me."

"I'm doing nothing of the sort." she said in a maddingly calm tone.

"Fine, good for you. Mycroft's gone on a top secret mission. There's probably a revolution in North Korea. He sent his secretary to tell me. I'm well informed. Now please take your skinny little arse the holy hell out of my room."

She had been prepared for this. When her sister had the twins she had been an absolute nightmare. Called her a filthy whore. But being called a lowly secretary was almost too much. She tried to remember that she was dealing with a hysterical woman. Who she was much better looking than...ah. That was better. She continued to stand her ground, remaining exceedingly calm and saying in an even voice, "I'm only here to help. I'm sorry if I've done something to make you angry."

_You homely little bitch_, she added mentally.

"You..." Molly shook her finger again. "You...!" She closed her mouth, as if she could not possibly think of a word vile enough to describe the other woman. "Don't pretend you're my friend either! I know what you are. You...TROLLOP!" she screamed. Then, abruptly, the fire of her fury extinguished and she clapped her hands over her mouth, looking horrified.

"Oh my God I am so sorry. I didn't mean to say all that! I'm just so...So Pregnant! It's got me all hormonal and I'm so sick of this hospital and then Mycroft isn't even here to tell me where I am supposed to go or what happens now. I'm sorry."

"It's fine. I understand." she gave her a very tight smile that possibly revealed more teeth than a friendly grin should have. "That's why I'm here, to make sure you're all taken care of. May I sit?"

"Please." Molly was crying now, back to sitting on the bed. She looked pathetic, like a kitten in the mud.

The other woman tried not to enjoy that too much. She sat in the chair and took out some folders. "Now, Mycroft left me with several different options. He wanted to make sure you are as comfortable as possible for now. When he returns, he said you two can look at more permanent arrangements. The first idea was that perhaps you would like to stay with your mother."

"God no." She shuddered.

"There's also a few safe houses in the area. You'd be very well looked after."

" You mean 'watched'?"

"Protected." The other woman suggested.

"Imprisoned."

"Alright then. Mycroft thought you might feel more comfortable at the Baker Street residence. The lower apartment is free and there is already considerable surveillance and security in place, especially after the bombings."

"Sherlock's house? Where my ex-boyfriend has already broken into once? That's a safe place?"

She shrugged as if it really didn't make a difference to her either way. "I said there is a lot of new security. But since none of those ideas seem to appeal to you, what do you suggest?"

"Can't I just go home?"

"No." She patted her hand in what may have been contempt or sympathy (but most likely both). "Your life is different now."

"Well," she sniffled. "Mrs. Hudson has been taking such good care of Toby for me. They send me mew-mails."

"Mew mails?"

"Like email but for cats."

The woman, sometimes Anthea, sometimes simply 'you there', always Callie to her mother, looked at Molly like she was trying to figure out which one of them might have a brain injury. Then she forced another smile. "Is that a yes then?"

Two days later, Mrs. Hudson was busily running from her flat to the lower one, stocking the fridge with some extras (just this once, so Molly could get settled. She shouldn't expect it after she moved in). She got the last pie downstairs and nearly jumped out of her skin to see Sherlock perching on one of the new chairs, holding Molly's cat out in front of him at arm's length.

"Sherlock, for heaven's sake, what are you doing down here?"

"Staring contest."

"Give him here, you're getting hair all over your suit." She set the pie down and took Toby, scritching her nose up at him and tickling him between the ears.

"You're our little guard cat, aren't you?"

Sherlock snorted. If it had been anyone except her, he would have mocked her out loud. Instead, he just took her excessive cheer as a sign that Mycroft authorized an exorbitant sum for the rent. Noted. Filed for later.

As he got his crutches and hobbled his way up the stairs, he made sure to pause for a moment and stand in a spot where one of the newer cameras would pick him up clearly. He gave a sarcastic little wave, gestured to the apartment's new decor (which he thought looked like something out of a transvestite's fire sale) and rolled his eyes. Then he continued on his way.

Somewhere, sitting at a table in the darkest corner of a grimy roadside eatery, Mycroft watched his computer for a moment and laughed.

**AN: I hope everyone enjoyed. I am trying to delicately balance humor, action and drama without straying into parody (omg harder than it seems). This and all chapters have been tested and approved by Roxanne-Michal (she is 100% brill so check out her fic too). I love reviews and feedback so please leave one. -hrlyqin**


	9. Chapter 9

**DEAREST**

**A Sherlock fanfiction by Hrlyqin, based on properties owned by their respective creators. **

**CHAPTER NINE**

It was a Tuesday. It was cold and rainy. John had worked a long day (not to mention not getting any sleep the night before) and now here he was, knocking at the upper door to Molly's flat.

This was becoming a sadly frequent occurrence.

"John!" Molly answered the door and let him down the stairs. "Thank you so much for coming. I just can't seem to get it to stop dripping."

"Not a problem." He said, which was almost entirely a lie. But he was a nice guy who was fully convinced of the way in which a gentleman should behave, especially to an expectant mum. He headed into the kitchen to take a look at the faucet. If her sink didn't stop with the drip, Molly's ability to offer him tea would be severely impeded.

While he started fiddling, Molly leaned against the counter shifting her feet. "So Sherlock is on a case still? He was playing the violin all night."

"Yeah. It's just a missing husband but he'll take what he can get these days. I think Inspector Lestrade has them nearly convinced to let him do police consultations again."

"Oh that will be such a relief for you."

"I'd say that I would at least get more sleep but you know..."

They both laughed a little bit and John gave the faucet knob a strong twist.

"All better."

"Looks like it just needed a bit of muscle." she said in a coy voice.

Right then. John could see that it wouldn't do him any good to put off the conversation. "Listen Molly, I think we should talk."

Molly gulped a little but recovered nicely. "Of course, would you like some tea?"

"No, no tea. Let's just sit down."

He led her out to the living room and helped her get comfortable on the couch before sitting next to her and adopting his gentlest bedside manner.

"Molly," he started,"I know this must be hard for you. Your life has changed completely from what it was a year ago, and I know what that's like. I also know you must be lonely, and it's not easy living here. People always coming and going. The violin music. The explosions. The smells."

"Sherlock trying to shave Toby." she interjected.

"That was for a case, and he apologized. Anyway, I'm saying that I know you are in a bad patch right now, and I want you to know that I consider myself your friend. **Just** a friend. But a good friend."

"You do?"

"Yes, and as your friend, I need a favor."

"Anything. Just name it. You've been so nice to me."

"Stop making excuses to call me down here. Today it was the faucet. You needed help moving the sofa last week. You've been here for almost 4 months now and I'd like us to be past all of that. If you want company, you can just ask."

For a second, Molly looked like she might cry, but she swallowed deeply and nodded. She cried at absolutely everything these days. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. Just think about what I said, okay? Okay then. Better get upstairs. Molly. Toby."

He gave the cat a little rub and went upstairs, stopping for a minute to chat with Mrs. Hudson about an idea of hers. He felt quite accomplished - two successful conversations with women in less than an hour. He was on a roll.

Opening up the door to his flat, he was visually assaulted by the state of things in the living room. There were papers everywhere. It looks like they might have been in stacks at one point until Sherlock couldn't find something he was looking for. Now they looked rather like a tornado had hit them.

In the middle of all this, sitting on the floor with what had probably been the offending missing paper, was his roommate.

"Thanks for cleaning up." he said as he came in.

"Don't mention it."

"Is all this about the missing husband?"

"Not missing. Dead. With quite a lot of personal insurance."

"Your work does always bring out the best in people." he muttered. "I had a talk with Molly."

"No more John the handyman?"

"Nope. I talked with Mrs. Hudson too."

Sherlock, sensing that whatever John wanted to discuss may need at least the outward appearance of his attention, set the paper down and waited for him to continue.

"We think Molly might need a little cheering up, and the baby's almost here now, so Mrs. Hudson is throwing her a shower."

Sherlock gave himself time to carefully think through several possibilities before he replied. "And this." Pause. "Involves us how?"

"Mrs. Hudson's going to handle all the decorations and favors, the invitations, so I'm in charge of food. I thought Angelo's or Busabas."

"And my contribution?"

"Well we talked about that. We think the best thing you can do is... just let us handle it. It would actually be great if you weren't even there at all."

Sherlock stood up, using the full power of his height against John's to stare the man down. "You think I'll do something to ruin it."

"Yes." John said matter-of-factly.

"Say inappropriate things, make people uncomfortable, put some type of experimental compound in the cupcakes."

"Yes." John agreed again.

"You don't want me to help at all?"

"Yes."

"...fine."

"Fine."

"Alright then."

"Yep."

John looked at Sherlock for a minute longer, trying to figure out what was going on in that head, then he turned away and visibly shook himself as if trying to break a spell. "I'm famished. Have we got anything in?"

Despite Sherlock's agreement that he did not want to be a part of the party planning, John found him tagging along to talk to the restaurants about catering and helping Mrs. Hudson lick envelopes. Mrs. Hudson of course cooed over the help. John couldn't decide if she didn't know Sherlock at all or if she knew him better than anyone else.

Despite tradition that a baby shower should be an all-female affair, about half the guest list was men. More than half, if you counted Toby. John had wrangled the feline and taken him upstairs while Mrs. Hudson sent Molly out on an errand so they could set up.

He was in the act of fitting a collar with a bowtie on it around his neck when Sherlock came out of his bedroom, dressed much more fully and formally than when he had gone in.

"Sherlock, I told you, you don't need to come."

"Nonsense. You know how much I love a party." he said in a tone that implied that he loved anything but."John, is that cat wearing a bow tie?"

John said something under his breath about bow ties being cool, but Sherlock swooped in and snatched the cat away, stripping him of his formal wear.

"What's your fascination with Molly's cat?" John asked, giving up on talking him out of going.

"Cats are fascinating creatures John. Think of dogs. Dogs hunt. They guard. It makes sense that humans domesticated them. Goats, cows, all of the animals early civilizations brought in to their societies served some purpose. But not cats. There is a theory that instead of being domesticated by humans, cats were attracted to the rodents living in human settlements and simply showed up and imposed themselves. They served no real purpose but were still taken in as pets. In that sense, humans never domesticated cats at all. Cats domesticated humans."

"And yet you don't know that the Earth goes round the sun."

"That knowledge has never been useful to me. The behaviour of cats, on the other hand, has helped me with any number of cases."

"Of course."

Mrs. Hudson had everything set up in her flat by the time the boys got down there. The food was on platters in the kitchen and the rest of the guests were enjoying themselves in a living room festooned with blue and white ribbons, pandas and elephants.

"Come in, come in. We're just waiting on Molly now." She tried to take Toby from Sherlock but the pale man retreated to a chair with his furry friend. Mrs. Hudson made introductions all around while Sherlock mentally filled in the details of each person present.

Meena, a friend of Molly's from work. A nurse. A chubby freckled woman who had no doubt picked a profession which would allow her to smother people with all of her unused love and affection.

Caroline, who Molly knew from school. Caroline had only become friends with Molly so she could have someone to feel better than, and those feelings hadn't changed over the years.

Tosh, who Molly had met 'socially'. Sherlock suspected the circumstances were embarrassing to Molly. Also, Tosh had been involved in at least one lesbian affair.

Mrs. Turner, the neighbor, who thought it was chic and bohemian of her to attend a shower for an unwed mother.

Cyril and Robert, Mrs. Turner's tenants. Although they professed to be deeply in love and a shining example of gay commitment, Cyril had recently rekindled his relationship with his ex-wife.

Sherlock was still deducing minute details about the crowd when Molly entered the building, calling out to Mrs. Hudson as she opened the door.

"I've got your custar-"

"SURPRISE!"

Molly clapped her hand to her cheek and looked delighted. She was led into the room and given the seat of honor as the party began.

John ferried out the food and compliments were passed around as he presented the satay.

"I've always loved thai food. It makes me feel so sophisticated." Molly said.

"But the peanut sauce, straight to my hips." said the nurse as she dunked her meat into delicious calories.

"I lived in Thailand for awhile...Oh but that was before I got married of course."

Sherlock snapped his head sharply towards Mrs. Hudson and her comment. Surely she did not mean what he took it to mean...

After that, the event was rather dull. He was bored nearly witless, made even more bored by trying to behave himself. After an hour, he excused himself before he could be roped into playing Pin the Sperm on the Egg again.

He slipped upstairs and pulled out his phone. He did prefer to text but he knew how his brother abhorred it.

Mycroft was bent over the sink in his hotel room, all the necessary supplies laid out on the counter beside him (bleach, sponges, baking powder and so on). He wiped his hand on a towel and answered his buzzing phone.

"I hope you truly appreciate what I have just suffered through."

"Sherlock. Today was the shower, I take it?"

"I almost lit myself on fire as a distraction. You'll enjoy the video footage."

"You have news for me?"

"Nothing has significantly changed. Molly is still relatively isolated. No one in her immediate social circle is a threat. No one suspicious has been following her or watching her. How are things on your end?"

"Blood stains are such a chore to get out of good fabrics."

"Try vinegar. You'll be home soon then?"

"In time for the birth."

"Enjoy the rest of your vacation, Mycroft."

The brothers hung up and Mycroft continued with his washing up. He missed home. He missed his office. His assistant. He really was glad that he would be back in London's arms soon.

Going back out to the main room of his hotel, he set his luggage out to begin filling it. Most of what he had brought would sadly need to be destroyed now.

Laying across the bed like a corpse in repose was his umbrella. Corpse was an appropriate term for it now. It had several gouges through the fabric (knives), a few perfectly circular bullet holes, scorch marks and large hacks and chips along the handle (more knives). Most telling of all was the battered metal tip and topmost part of the umbrella. If one were going by appearance alone, it looked like it had been shoved through something wet and messy.

It was really going to be difficult to replace.

**A/N: The theory Sherlock cites on a cat's lack of domestication is credited to J.A. Baldwin. **

**As always, this chapter was approved by that font of brilliant, Roxann-Michal. Also thanks to my repeat reviewers, hope to hear from you again!**


	10. Chapter 10

**DEAREST, a fanfiction by Hrlyqin**

**CHAPTER 10 **

**_for Roxanne-Michael (happy holmesidays_!)**

.

.

After their conversation, Sherlock did not speak from his brother for a week. He did receive several text messages which he took as another sign that he and Mycroft got along better from a distance. But the texts never hinted at where he was or what was going on. No one had any idea when he might come back. Then, abruptly, Sherlock came home one day to find him sitting in the living room.

"Mycroft." he said by way of greeting as he came in the door. If he was surprised, he did not show it.

"Sherlock." Mycroft said in the same tone. He was reclined in one of the chairs by the fire place. The younger Holmes brother removed coat, gloves and scarf before sitting opposite him.

They each sat in silence for over a minute, testing the waters of their new cordiality before Sherlock asked if he could go first. Mycroft inclined his head in acquiescence.

"While it's not really a deduction to say you've been abroad, I can tell that among your destinations were Italy, Spain and Greece. You have traveled on a boat in the last 48 hours and on a train in the last two weeks. You have expended a considerable amount of your diplomatic connections in this hunt and you have not learned anything significant about Moriarty's whereabouts or intentions. Yet, you feel like it was worth it. Also, you've gained 7 pounds. Your turn."

"Detective Inspector Lestrade has obtained permission to once again seek your aid in cases. You've spent most of today investigating a jewelry store robbery. You are pleased with the work but angry that John would not join you. You had a fight with him today about money and are concerned that he is going to spend the night with Claudia or Sophie or, saints forbid, go back to Sarah, as it was hard enough for you to break them up the first time."

"Amateurish. None of those are difficult facts to figure out. I am a genius, John is quite annoyingly attached to the normalcy of going to work, paying his bills and the like. Sarah Sawyer is the female equivalent of tepid tea. John can do far better."

"Like you?"

"Wrong. John is entirely heterosexual. Look at his wardrobe."

"But if he were so inclined..."

"Don't change the subject, Mycroft."

"Very well. I did spend time in Italy, Spain and Greece. Those locations alone explain the weight gain, which is hardly a relevant fact. I was able to locate Sebastian Moran but as it turns out, he was not really inclined to speak with me so I do not have any new information. As there was no point in keeping him alive if he was not going to speak, I found he was much more useful as a token of my retaliation and yes, it was extremely satisfying."

"You did it yourself?"

"I did."

"Interesting." Sherlock thought about the numerous possibilities. "But what about Moriarty?"

"I am sure between the two of us, we can uncover a solution." This time, Sherlock did seem surprised. Mycroft may have gloated about that as he rose from the chair. "I am making arrangements for Molly to move into a nice terrace house, rather like this one actually. She'd need to be settled before the baby is born so it should be rather quick. And Sherlock? Try to be gracious to her."

He was going to ask what he needed to be gracious for when he realized why Mycroft had remained so still during their conversation. "You're hurt."

"War wounds. It's nothing."

"You've been stabbed."

"Yes."

"And shot."

"Yes."

"What happened?"

Mycroft gave his brother a thin smile, one that didn't reach his eyes. No, instead, his eyes shone with a strange glow. "As you deduced, it was worth it."

With that, he let himself out and headed home. He had asked his assistant to be there waiting for him. Since she had sent him regular reports, there was not a lot to catch up on but he wanted the pleasure of actually seeing her. Travel had given him time to think, and there were things he thought needed saying. Per his instruction, Lindley had seated her in the library and Mycroft allowed himself to enjoy observing her as he approached.

She had also put on some weight but it suited her, making her beauty more soft and real instead of hard and sharp. He supposed it was due to her chef boyfriend but he tried not to think too much of that. Her hair was pulled back and rested on her neck, inviting the eye to linger on the curves of her skin.

"Hello Callie."

In a strange reverse of etiquette, she rose and stayed standing until he was on the sofa. When she sat, it was on the same piece of furniture as him but the distance was one that he noted.

"Your meeting with Molly went well?"

"Yes. She agreed to the house. I think she feels safer with close neighbors, and the fact that those neighbors may not be civilians is not a fact I felt it necessary to discuss."

She smiled and he continued, emboldened by it. "I want to thank you, for the care you've shown to her while I have been gone. I know it wasn't easy. I know that your feelings are... complicated."

He reached out across the gaping chasm between them and attempted to capture her hand. His fingers brushed against hers and he had just long enough to absorb the sensation (light talc, expensive lotion - violet scented, nails done professionally - french manicure) before she pulled away.

"Mycroft, I need to talk to you."

This was not going as he had planned.

Maybe he could subvert it?

"I'm getting married."

No, not as he planned at all.

"I know my timing is terrible, and I'm sorry. The wedding isn't until April, at the earliest, but I don't think it's appropriate for me to work for you anymore. Given our history."

This may have been the least according-to-plan situation he had ever been involved in.

That didn't involve Semtex.

"I've compiled a list for you of qualified replacements. Background checks are in progress for the top three."

He pressed his lips together so stiffly that they formed one thin slash on his face. "I don't get a say in this?"

"No. I'm sorry. But you don't."

Sherlock reserved a small part of his brain to ponder what he needed to be gracious about while he solved the case (woman impersonating heiress switched the real gemstones for fakes), sifted through emails from the website and continued his ongoing experiment of pouring exactly four liters of milk down the drain daily (testing John's reaction to how quickly their supply diminished). He was still giving thought to the problem days later when he heard a gentle knocking at the door.

He started to call to John to get it when he remembered he wasn't home. Sherlock was forced to abandon his perch and get the door himself.

It opened to reveal Molly, accompanied by a cardboard box and the cat. Remembering that he was supposed to be gracious for something, he attempted small talk.

"Hello Molly. I thought you had moved."

"Nearly. You should see the new house. The bathtub is gigantic. Not that I was, erm, inviting you into my bath. I just meant it's nice." She sucked on the inside of her cheek nervously. "May I come in?"

He stood aside and allowed her to enter. She was such an exquisitely twitchy person. It was especially remarkable that she walked only a few steps inside before turning to face him again. When she spoke, her words rushed out like a geyser.

"I've been talking to my doctor a lot and doing some reading. A cat and an infant aren't always the best combination and there's the danger of suffocation, fleas, bacteria. Even if the cat likes the baby. Which I know Toby would. But I know I need to put my baby first with things..." she hiccuped out a little cry. "I didn't know what I was going to do but then you've been getting on so well. I really really put a lot of thought into it and it's the best solution."

He hadn't been able to follow any of that. Was this what it felt like to be Sgt. Donovan? Since he didn't know what was going on, he simply waited for a better explanation.

"I want you to take Toby for me."

"What?"

Molly was now thrusting the cat into his arms where it stuck its nose into his open collar.

"See? He likes you. This way I know he won't be lonely."

Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it. Be gracious.

"Thank you." he tried. Was thank you appropriate? "I'll take good care of him." he added.

She looked happy so he guessed that was right. Sherlock let the cat down so it could explore it's surroundings, watching it slip into the kitchen.

"So I brought his dish, and his food, and his box...Mrs Hudson cleaned it out so there's fresh litter."

"I've heard they can be toilet trained."

"Oh...um, yes. I think they can be."

Sherlock accepted the box and set it on the table for John to go through later. Since Molly was lingering (and weeping), he was trying to assemble a gracious request for her to leave when her sad whimpering turned into a shriek of pain.

He turned to see her half sit-half fall onto the couch. Her face was contorted horribly and her hand sought out then clutched at her stomach.

"Molly?"

"Sherlock." she said through grit teeth. "Please go get Mrs. Hudson."

"Are you...in pain?" He was trying to absorb as much information as he could.

"I think I'm going into labour."

"Labour for a first time mother can take an average of 20 hours. Did you know that humans have the largest head in relation to pelvis size of any mammal?"

"**Sherlock. Get. Mrs. Hudson**." Her free hand sought and gripped the arm of the couch. "Please."

"If you feel as if your water might break, you should move to the chair. John is very fond of the couch."

"**MRS. HUDSON!**" she yelled.

It took a minute but the landlady popped up the stairs and quickly assessed the situation in the upper flat.

"Oh dear. Is it time?"

Molly nodded and allowed Mrs. Hudson to help her up and get her moving. Strangely, she didn't ask Sherlock to help but only asked that he ring Mycroft and let him know what was happening. Like an expert, She had Molly and her hospital bag packed up into the car in no time.

As he stood by the window and watched them pull away to head to the hospital, Sherlock reflected on the correlations between he and his brother at the moment.

Mycroft got a son.

He got a pussy cat.


	11. Chapter 11

**DEAREST **

**A fanfiction by Hrlyqin based on properties owned by their creators**

**CHAPTER 11**

**Author's Note: I wrote this chapter pre-Scandal. After I watched the episode, I was kind of bummed by a scene similar to one I wrote in the episode. I consulted my oracle Roxanne-Michal and she said not to change a thing. Since this fic is now kind of AU, I am going to chalk it up to one of those parallel universe things and hope everyone enjoys**

Before she went into labour, Molly had been adamant: no drugs, natural childbirth. She wanted to experience the wonder bestowed upon her as a woman and welcome her child into the world fully aware of what was happening. She wanted her beautiful, perfect moment.

After she went into labour, she grabbed a doctor by his necktie and told him to give her the strongest stuff they legally and ethically could. So for the rest of her labour (22 hours), she was in a blissful state of numbness interrupted by searing pain, and during the birth she entered a state of bizarre nirvana where it was like watching someone else give birth. Molly thought it was possibly the most interesting thing that had ever happened to her.

When her son was born she held him and counted his fingers and toes, but she didn't really remember any of it. It was in her room in her crisp white hospital gown, the epidural tube running out of her lower back, that she really got to meet her baby.

The nurse had come in with him in one of those acrylic carriages hospitals use for newborns. He was swaddled in a blue blanket and her first thought as she took him into her arms was that he was heavier than she expected him to be. Her second thought was to peel back the blanket and take a good long look at his face.

"Oh thank God." she whispered. "I was so worried."

"Not what you ordered?" asked John jokingly. He, Mycroft and Sherlock were gathered in the room with her.

"No, I just thought..."

_I thought he might look like his father. _

_I thought he would look so much like his father that everyone would know it WASN'T Mycroft. _

_I thought he would look so much like his father that I wouldn't be able to love him. _

"I was scared something might be wrong." she finished. "But he's perfect. Look at his nose."

"Good nose." John agreed. "Manly nose. Sherlock has been trying to guess what name you would pick."

"Really?" she looked over at Sherlock. "Go ahead. Try."

"Robert." Sherlock said in the most bored tone possible as he played with his phone.

"Sorry. Try again?"

"What?" He snapped his phone shut. "Fine. Jeremy."

"No." He took such umbrage to her saying no that she was forced to laugh.

"Christopher."

"No, no and no. Jamie. Jamie Joshua Hooper."

Sherlock muttered something about the dangers of sexually ambiguous names under his breath and Molly ignored him, which was surprisingly easy right now. She was looking at the round little nub of Jamie's lips and his thatch of pale brown hair. She was thinking about all of the things she had done wrong in her life; Jim, pretty much every other relationship she'd had; school; losing out on job promotions; all the bad decisions, and she knew this hadn't been one of them. No matter how it happened. This was going to be the thing she did right, being a mother. She would be the best mother possible.

And if anyone ever tried to hurt Jamie, she wouldn't need Mycroft's help, she would kill them herself.

.

.

.

While Molly was cooing over the baby and John was cooing a little over her cooing, Mycroft touched Sherlock's elbow and both of them quietly slipped out of the room. The older Holmes led the younger one to an atrium on the lower floor, stuffed full of ferns. He closed the door behind them and pulled a wrapped trio of cigars from his pocket. Plucking two, he handed one over to Sherlock and lit the other for himself.

"Nicotine patch." Sherlock objected. "No smoking area."

"New father." Mycroft shot back. "Exceptions allowed."

"Well, if you insist." 

"I do, I'm afraid."

Sherlock smiled a little half smile and accepted the cigar, letting Mycroft light it for him. He inhaled deeply and made a noise from the back of his throat that sounded orgasmic. "I may have to start being nice to you now."

"Please don't, I wouldn't know what to do with myself."

"So, what comes now?"

"Now?" Mycroft asked.

"The baby has arrived, you've killed Moran and Moriarty hasn't been so kind as to even poke his head out. So what happens now?"

"We keep looking. We help Molly. We raise the child."

"The child. The child. You're supposed to be a father now."

"And you, an uncle. God save the Queen. Lucky for us, I think Molly will be an able mother. Loving. Doting. She'll do most of the work."

Sherlock surrounded himself in a cloud of smoke, waiting for a nurse or other hospital personnel to come along and scold them but none did. After circulating the tobacco thoroughly through his body, curls to toes, he asked, "Do you ever wonder what we would have been like if our parents..."

"Had been anyone but our parents? Constantly. For you, mostly."

"How many times do I need to tell you that there is nothing wrong with me?"

"I know that. The greatest mind in history. But maybe if our mother had been more of a mother, or our father more of a father, things would not have been so difficult for you. Did I ever tell you that I can recall perfectly the night that you were born?"

"Really?" Sherlock asked. "Was I late?"

"Naturally so, and inconvenient. But they were both so different then. Just happy to have you. Father bundled me up, set me in the car with my blanket and my bear and let me sleep in the hospital waiting room. The storm woke me, dreadful storm, cold wind. The lights kept flickering. After I woke up I remember thinking 'Yes there's a baby coming but can someone get me a steady light so I can read TinTin?'. I was cold, I was ill-tempered and you took forever. I had decided that when you did finally grace us with your presence I was not going to love you at all. Mummy and Father could do all the loving. I would just... take your toys and blame you for breaking things I broke. Had my mind made up. You were born just before the sun came up and I knew the minute I saw you that I was not going to be able to stand by my earlier decision. There you were, a small fragile thing and you were so ugly, frankly, that I knew I would have to love you because no one else was going to."

Sherlock nudged his foot towards where Mycroft was standing in a gesture that said he would kick him if he wanted to expend the effort to stand up (but he didn't). "I used to be so jealous when I would overhear people talking about how Mother and Father were when you were a boy. How they were loving and happy and picturesque. Football games. Symphonies. I wondered what kind of cruel joke it was that I would know about that but never be able to know it myself."

"It wasn't because of you, of course. If Mummy...if Mother hadn't lost the other baby, I think things would have continued much the same. But she did and then things just dried up between them. I had to look out for both of us."

"Well, I suppose it's a good turn that Jamie," he paused in a moment of disdain for the child's name, "has such an extended family. There will always be someone to care."

"Yes." Mycroft agreed. "That's one way to look at it."

"Can you love it, even though it is not biologically related to you?"

"Yes. So can you. I won't tell anyone. Promise."

**More Ans: Thanks everyone for the many reviews, favorites and follows. Please keep them coming and I will keep going. If this chapter seemed a little insubstantial, it is only because I have big things planned that I might be in a rush to get to. If you enjoyed, keep reading despite the advent of a whole new exciting Sherlockverse to fanfic about and also please check out my other stories. ~hrlyqin**


	12. Chapter 12

**DEAREST, a Sherlock fanfiction by Hrlyqin **

**Chapter 12 **

"Remember Sherlock," John said, pulling on his coat, "you promised."

Sherlock gave him a look, one eyebrow just slightly higher than the other, in reply.

"All I'm asking is one night. No texts. No crime scenes. No serial killers. Molly is really looking forward to this, and so am I."

"It's fine John. Mrs. Hudson and I will be able to keep ourselves amused with Jamie."

"Yeah, speaking of..." he dug into his jacket pocket and withdrew a scribbled list and handed it to his flatmate. "I made a little list. Things NOT to do, okay? I know you haven't really had a lot to time around babies."

"And you have? You'll have to tell me about that sometime."

John opened his mouth to reply when he heard the downstairs door being knocked on. Probably Molly and the baby. He met Mrs. Hudson in the hall and they opened it together, Sherlock trailing behind them to stand on the bottom step.

"Oh there's my little prince." Mrs. Hudson scooped Jamie out of Molly's arms and started tickling him as Molly set the baby's bag (milk, diapers, powders, etc) down next to her.

Molly and John said their hellos and Molly looked up to the stairs. "Hello Sherlock."

"Hello Molly." He gave her a visual appraisal. Her attire did not say date, but evening out with a friend. She had been looking forward to it, he could see that much. Sort of a practice run to getting out and being social again as for the past four months she had done nothing but bond with the infant. He could also deduce that she was not entirely comfortable with her new body yet. "Still breastfeeding?"

Molly folded her coat over her swollen chest self-consciously and looked at her feet. John gave him a scolding look and showed her out. Sherlock watched the door closed annoyed that neither of them had actually answered him (although the answer was clearly yes).

'I'm sorry about that." John said as he hailed a taxi for them.

"That? Oh, no, don't worry. I'm used to it by now."

As they settled into their ride to the theater, John pondered that. Was he becoming immune to Sherlock too? Trying to be cheery, he forced his brain to change subjects and tried to make some small talk with Molly. "I really appreciate you taking a bachelor out on the town."

She laughed. "I appreciate you being nice to an old mum so she doesn't have to go to the movies by herself."

"Anytime. I've been going a little crazy. No cases this month. And you, I can only imagine. Are you getting any sleep at all?"

"Not a wink. Jo and Darby, my two neighbors on the left? They've been great about watching Jamie when I'm off at work or going to the market but it doesn't seem right to impose on them so I can go get my hair done or buy a dress...and at night, I wake up every hour or so just to check on him, or when he's hungry, or when he's got an ear ache, or when he's wet. I feel bad because my mother keeps saying she'll come stay with me but," Molly shuddered.

"You and your mother don't get along?"

"Imagine Harry," she said, easing into it in case John bristled, "but older, fatter and more bitter about life. No, I don't want her around Jamie. Besides, I don't think she'd understand about my situation. Being a harlot and all."

"Molly Hooper, harlot of the greater London area."

"Seducing eligible doctors who are nice enough to be seen in public with her." she said, and then they both started laughing.

Somewhere, between getting into the taxi and arriving at the theater, the fingers of John's right hand touched the back of Molly's left and when she didn't notice or object, he decided that he was fine with them being there. Since it had felt rather easy and natural in the taxi, he also decided he would try it again during the movie.

Mrs. Hudson was an admirable baby sitter, especially in her ability to not leave Sherlock alone with Jamie. She did it so subtly that had it been anyone else except Sherlock, they wouldn't have noticed at all. As it was, Sherlock sat with John's laptop in her living room while she played squishy-blue-thing with the baby and while she read to the baby and showed only mild interest when she changed the baby. He made himself such a calm and unobtrusive figure that after a few hours, Mrs. Hudson started rubbing her bad hip absently and said, "This weather will be the death of me. I'd kill for a good soak right now."

"Go ahead. I can watch the child."

She looked at him hesitantly.

"He has been fed, burped, changed and amused. Escape seems unlikely. I think I can manage for a few minutes."

"Well... just a few minutes. I'll just be in the bath if you need anything"." she relented.

Sherlock waited until he heard the faucet going and he crept off the couch and sat down on the floor next to the playpen. Jamie lifted his head curiously and Sherlock obliged by reaching one hand inside the containment area and within Jamie's reach. The baby grabbed one of his long fingers and wrapped his hand around it, then made a cooing noise as if to say, "That's better."

"They left me a list, you know." Sherlock struggled to get the list out with only one hand but he did and then started reading off the items. "_Number one, Breast milk is for babies, not consulting detectives._ Really? That was only the one time and I was curious. _Number two, no stool samples_. John is just concerned he will get it mixed up with his nutella. _Number three..._oh I am honestly not going to repeat that. _Number four, remember that children will put anything in their mounts."_ he rolled his eyes and Jamie made another cooing noise, then his little mouth formed a large yawn. His dark eyes rolled over to Uncle Sherlock expectantly and he tugged at the finger he now had in his possession.

"Bedtime story? Let's see...have I ever told you about the dead man in the train car with 6 watches?"

Mycroft pressed a button and the video feed from the lamppost closest to Baker Street disappeared, as did the frankly rather endearing images of Sherlock and Jamie in the window (he had promised, after all). Thinking that he had put it off enough, he took another stout drink of scotch and set himself to task again.

_Dear Callie, _

_Congratulations on your upcoming nuptials. I hope it is not a decision you come to regret. _

No. He picked up the piece of paper and waded it up, tossing it in the general vicinity of his trashcan and letting it plop to the floor with his other missed shots. Apart from the necessary mental health breaks, he had been at this for hours. Since he was not attending the wedding (he thought it would be somewhat...inappropriate), he had decided to send an early card that would not get lost in all the general well-wishing that would come her way. He knew deep in his heart what he wanted to say, but he could not seem to make his brain and fingers cooperate into wording it correctly. Hence, the many failed drafts.

About a week after Jamie had been born, Callie had sent him the customary sentiment in a card (Congratulations on your new arrival!) and a neatly wrapped gift which presently sat on the corner of Mycroft's desk. Letting his fingers touch it, he rotated the mug gently until the words _World's Best Dad _were visible. He had picked his mobile out of his pocket to call her and thank her until he saw the card was from 'both of us' instead of simply Callie. That had rather killed his enthusiasm. But still, he knew it was her nimble mind that had selected the gift and wrapped it so carefully. He wanted to repay her now in kind. He tried again:

_Best Wishes to the happy couple! May the ever present threat of terrorism, economic collapse and global destruction never dampen your wedded bliss. _

That one also went into the bin.

Ironically, if he had a decent assistant they could be doing this for him. But he didn't have any assistant presently, and none of the ones that had come after Callie had been decent. Maybe he was too harsh on them. Likely, he was too harsh on them. They were competent enough, if not exactly clever and all a little raw still. But they didn't have that ease, the finesse to do everything he asked and make it all seem so effortless. The unspoken ability to support him in even the most difficult action. A great smile.

Simple put, none of them were her.

He took one last knock back from his glass of scotch (it was now annoyingly empty) and made a final attempt. Reading it through, he thought it wasn't bad at all. For a minute, he worried about laying emotions so bare but then he slid over the card he had purchased (it featured a mouse bride and a mouse groom standing outside a cheese church), opened it and copied his words onto the inside:

_Dearest Callie, _

_I never stopped to imagine a time when I would not have you by my side. I miss the grace you brought to a difficult and demanding job as much as I miss the warmth of your companionship. I wish things could be different between us, but I know that they cannot, and more than I want my daily life to return to normal I want your happiness. So I wish you and your husband-to-be all of the joy, wonder and peace that life has to offer. You deserve it all. If there is anything I can ever do, know that I am eternally in your service. _

_Love,_

_Mycroft _

He slipped the card into it's envelope where it nestled against a personal check for fifty thousand pounds. He brought the envelope to his lips where he held it for a moment before wetting the glue and sealing it away, closing a chapter in his life.

**Author Notes: Thanks for the especially kind reviews I got in the last chapter. As for my worries over the duplicate scene, I can only say that Roxanne-Michal is a genius and I shall never doubt her advice. Hope everyone is still enjoying and is now as deftly lulled into a false sense of security as the characters seem to have been. **


	13. Chapter 13

**DEAREST – Chapter 13 **

**Story by Hrlyqin, based on works owned by Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and the estate of Arthur Conan Doyle**

"_Just dropped Dr. Watson off at the Baker Street residence, sir." _

"_Excellent. How did he seem?" _

"_A bit pissed off. Kept hitting on me." she laughed. _

"_Oh my. I supposed I'll have to have him killed after all." _

"_I really, really don't think you need to worry." _

"_Mmmm, why is that? Do you find yourself otherwise occupied?" _

"_I might be busy having an affair with my boss." _

_Now it was his turn to laugh. "Miss Shropshire, you're enchanting. Can I buy you dinner?" _

"_How about you buy me breakfast instead, Mr. Holmes?" _

"_I'll see you soon."_

Mycroft was pulled out of his reminiscing by the irritating buzz of his cell phone. He reached into his pocket, retrieved the device and looked at the screen.

**John is 'hanging out' with Molly again tonight. Just as friends, naturally. **

**SH**

Mycroft frowned and then frowned even more deeply when he tried to call Sherlock and got no answer. Apparently they weren't communicating verbally tonight.

**I've told you before: I don't care.**

**MH**

**They are both ignoring the mutual attraction out of consideration for you. Doesn't that make you feel better?**

**SH**

**It would if I cared. **

**MH **

**Can you imagine them being intimate? 'Pardon me, I'd just like to put my hand there'. 'Oh, of course, that's fine. May I just put my leg over here first?' **

**SH **

**It sounds like you've given the matter considerable thought. Is it still as much fun imagining John with someone else? **

**MH **

**Touche. **

**SH **

After that, the phone fell graciously silent. John and Molly were spending a lot of time together lately, and Sherlock was annoying persistent in keeping him updated on it. He had tried to insist he did not care. It was not as if he actually slept with the woman. If he was fond of her, or admired her, that was because she handled such a complicated situation with grace and ease. Nothing more. But Sherlock would not relent.

If his brother were a kinder man, he might think he was trying to distract him. After all, the wedding was only a few weeks away now and he was trying to keep a brave face.

Good thing his brother was not a kinder man.

At least she had kept the money. There had been a phone call, an awkward one, where she had tried to get him to take it back. He let it go longer than it needed it, just enjoying the dulcet tones of her voice, but he wouldn't let her return it. If she had, she might have come in person, and he didn't think he could bear it. It was the last time they had spoken.

He felt like such a child, such a teenager, being lovesick like this. If he could just get himself back in his right mind, surely he would remember her many flaws, all of the things that kept him from making an honest woman out of her, all of her annoying habits or unflattering features. He hadn't even been faithful to her when they were what he would call 'together'. There were issues, problems, disagreements. But at the moment, he couldn't name a one.

Draining his drink, he decided it was time for bed.

Sleep came easily, undoubtedly aided by the good scotch. He had settled into a deep rest when he heard the buzzing of his phone again, like it was underwater or he was. Grimacing, he forced himself back up to the surface from the sweet tide of rest and grabbed it off the nightstand. If it was Sherlock, he would drive down to Baker Street and throttle him.

**Number Blocked**

**Tag. You're It. **

Shaking his head to get his brain working, he read it again. Sherlock, joking? No. There wasn't any context. So if it was not Sherlock... .. .

Suddenly feeling very awake, Mycroft pressed a code into his phone and jumped from his bed, ripping off his nightshirt and throwing on the first clothes he touched. He was lacing up his shoes when the first message came in, playing on the speakerphone function.

"_Baker Street reporting, all clear."_

He was out the door to his car with his umbrella in one hand and his gun in his waistband (shooing Lindley and his questions away by saying he just couldn't sleep) when the second message came in.

"_Church Street reporting, all clear."_

On the road he did not hesitate, knowing that not everyone had yet reported back but letting his instinct guide him.

"_Cardiff watch reporting, all clear." _

_Edinburgh watch reporting, all clear." _

There was only one group of agents, monitoring his friends and family, that did not call in. Maybe there was a communication error, but, more likely, they were dead. He was already headed in that direction, a 27 minute drive if you obeyed all the traffic laws and were lucky with the signals.

Mycroft made it in 14.

He stopped the car about a block away and parked along the curb, killing the lights and shutting the door quietly. He did not draw his gun out as he approached Callie and Phillip's house and tried to creep along as carefully as possible, hoping to know more of the situation before he went into it.

The gate, swung closed but not latched. It could have been his agents, it could have been someone else. He looked down to note a flurry of footprints, but was unable to distinguish how many people made them. If he had more time, perhaps.

The security light did not come on as he crossed into the yard.

Less likely his agents.

The front door was closed tightly but the side door was open, a bit of glass crunching under his feet as he crossed the threshold. He edged it back shut with his foot and decided that now was an excellent time to draw his gun out. He also took a moment as he walked to wonder why on earth he was still carrying his umbrella, but he supposed it was habit.

He did not go far in the dark and unfamiliar house before his nostrils filled with a coppery scent. He inhaled deeply and turned towards the smell, heading into the hallway. As his eyes adjusted to the lack of lighting, he made out a shape crumpled on the floor, unmoving. Woman. 25-30 years of age. Black coat, black pants and dress shoes. Her hand was reaching out into nothingness and his eyes followed her fingers to the next body, hidden in the doorway of the Dining Room. These were his agents.

In an instant and a glance, he put it together in his mind. One of them came in the side door as he had, that was Agent Tussler in the Dining Room. She had a face-to-face confrontation with an attacker and although she was armed was overpowered physically. They stripped her of weapons and then shot her in the forehead.

While that was happening. Agent Culp had examined the rest of the property and then planned on coming in the front door, but was brought in sooner by the light pop of gunfire (a silencer was undoubtedly used, making this attack premeditated). The attacker was making a token effort to conceal the dead woman when Culp came in. Focused on one criminal, she was ambushed by another and brought down where she lay. Now the killers were wary and snapped her neck quietly instead of risking the gun again.

So two men (or two women). They had already been inside the house when the Agents arrived, and judging from how easily they abandoned their prey, Callie and Phillip were either already dead or incapacitated in some other way.

After pausing for that brief flash to analyze, he rose again and headed towards the stairs.

He suddenly found his feet flying as he broke out into a run and took the steps three at a time, pitching his body to the left at the top of the stairs and heading towards the only open door he could see. He knew there was no logical reason to rush, that by all statistical likelihood she was already dead. But he had to.

He burst into the bedroom and was slammed into from the side by someone in dark clothing. Mycroft used his attacker's momentum and threw them into the wall, his elbow coming back sharply into their face. There was a thick crunch as the nose broke and the unknown assailant slid down the wall. Unconscious.

Now he could take in his surroundings. Bed central in the room, nightstands on either side. A lamp turned over on the floor, mirror over the dresser tilted in it's place on the wall. A body on the floor at the foot of the bed, dressed only in boxers. The fiance. Not moving. Not breathing. No urgent need then. Bed empty, covers turned back. Another shadow moving in the room, moving towards him. He ducked as he saw a glint of steel flashing towards him and a knife went over his head, sticking into the wall. Mycroft moved to the side and came up behind the second attacker, getting his arm securely around the throat and yanking upward, pulling him off his feet.

"Callie?" he called out, keeping the man in a headlock. "Callie where are you?"

His fist came up and met the man's face as he continued to cut off his oxygen supply. Mycroft was about to punch him again when he stopped struggling and passed out. He dropped him to the floor instead and started inching around the room, trying to find her. Where was the blasted light switch?

"Mycroft."

The closet, of course. He pulled open the sliding door and found her huddled in the corner, her nightgown ripped open, her skin slick with blood, her blood, his blood too. It occurred to him that he didn't even have a jacket to offer her. His hands reached out and bundled her up against him, smoothing her hair out. "Calm down. I'm here. It will be okay, it's going to be okay."

He led her step by step out of the closet and to the bed, where he set her down only momentarily. Opening a random drawer, he pulled out a ratty sweater and handed it to her so she could cover herself. She took it with fingers that seemed too warm and tried to pull it over her head but couldn't, so he helped her, taking in her injuries and he put the garment on

(Stab wounds, one high on the throat, one on the left breast, one on the knee that was probably a miss, another on the back that was bleeding more severely than the others)

and shushed her. "Listen to me. We're going to go downstairs now. We're going to go out of the front door and to the neighbors. You're going to wait there for an ambulance and the police. You won't be alone."

"NoNoNononono." she clutched both of her hands in his to keep him still. "No they'll come after me. They... they killed him first and they made me watch and then they held the pillow over my head and I woke up and I thought they were gone but they weren't. I thought I was safe but they came back. We won't be safe, you have to listen to me."

"It's alright. I got both of them. They won't be awake for awhile." he assured her.

"Both? No." she lifted her head up and then shook it. "No there were three. Three men."

"Three..." he began, and then his vision blurred as he felt an incredibly sharp crack at the back of his skull and he slid sideways. Distantly, he heard Callie screaming.


	14. Chapter 14

**DEAREST – Chapter 14**

**Story by Hrlyqin, based on works owned by Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and the estate of Arthur Conan Doyle**

"_Three..." he began, and then his vision blurred as he felt an incredibly sharp crack at the back of his skull and he slid sideways. Distantly, he heard Callie screaming. _

When Mycroft awoke, he still had the screams ringing in his ears. His instincts moved him to leap up, to save the girl, to save the day. But he couldn't move. As he attempted to flex his hands, arms, legs and head he began to more fully grasp the situation he was in.

His head was pounding and his stomach churned with dizzy nausea. The area on his left side, around his ear, was sticky and he was able to infer that the blow to the head had caused bleeding, and then the blood remained in place long enough to clot. He wiggled his jaw and felt the crunch of the dried blood on his skin. An hour, at least, had passed.

His upper chest was free enough for him to take ragged breaths but he was restrained by ropes below that. Since he was sitting up and not lying down, a chair. The height of the chair told him it was not bedroom furniture, so likely he was downstairs or in another room entirely. He had been tied to the chair at the sternum, the wrists, the thighs and the ankles. Whoever had done this was obviously experienced in restraint.

So where was he? His vision swam in and out but he tried to focus and observe his surroundings. He was inside. There were no lights on but in the faint nighttime glow, he could make out a table in front of him. Wood. Walnut. Dining Table. Six places. He counted five chairs of similar height to his own and could only deduce that he was seated in the last one. The table was far enough away that he could tell his chair had been pushed back so that he would have no concealment to work with if he tried to free himself.

He let his head rest on his chest to see the floors. It was the same carpeting he had seen earlier, so he was still in Callie's house. This was the interior of the dining room he had glanced at earlier as he inspected the bodies. Those were gone, as were all traces of them. It was becoming clearer what his attackers had spent their hour doing.

But why bother at all? Why not simply kill him? That was the most logical choice, it was what he would have done under these circumstances. There were several possibilities. First, he was useful in some way so he needed to be kept alive. Second, the ire and complications that killing him would bring was not worth the trouble of doing it. Third...

Third...maybe they had planned something worse. There were many things worse than death.

Suppose it was death? Maybe they just wanted him to be awake and aware as he was murdered. Mycroft found himself strangely accepting of the idea of dying. He could finally catch up on all that sleep he missed. Blissful rest. No more worrying. No more dashing about trying to fix everyone's problems and then trying to fix the problems solutions created. No more waiting for thank yous that rarely came. No more loneliness.

It sounded so peaceful.

For him at least.

But what about those left behind? Sherlock may be insufferably independent and have no sense of familial loyalty, but without Mycroft, he would surely wind up in jail or dead before long no matter how much John Watson cared. John had never picked Sherlock up out of gutters and shooting galleries and holding cells. He had never dealt with the endless diatribe of abuse and obscenities hurled at him while Sherlock detoxed. He had never had to deal with one of the most endlessly creative minds figuring out how to trick drug councilors and break out of one rehabilitation center after another. He had never had to deal with the piss and shit and smell of an addict on a binge, never needed to clean up the mess. He had never had to sit and watch a clock and wonder if this time Sherlock had finally managed to kill himself. He had never had to come up with answers to questions asked when a gifted man is at his lowest and doesn't understand why the people he saves from criminal and thugs hate him so.

Not only had John Watson never done any of those things, but Mycroft simply couldn't trust that he would. He knew that John would go to the ends of the earth for Sherlock but he wasn't family. He wasn't his brother. He hadn't watched after him his entire life.

If he died tonight, Sherlock would be lost. John would follow him into the jaws of hell and be gone too. That left Molly and when she finally needed one of them to be there, they would all be gone. Jamie, he couldn't even think of Jamie without a fist clenching around his heart. Not his blood, no, not his family, but a child and so innocent. If he died now, he would never see Jamie grow up into the fine man he knew he would become with Molly's love.

All things considered, no, death wasn't an option. His schedule was just too full.

He had been testing his bonds while he thought. His initial conclusion, that this was familiar work done well, had been correct. There was not an immediate and effective means of escape with the available resources.

He analyzed a few scenarios and finally had to pick an option: he loudly cleared his throat and waited to see if anyone was waiting for him to wake up.

As soon as he did it, the lights came on as two men entered the room. He blinked rapidly as his eyes adjusted and they approached him. The first one was his friend with the broken nose, which had been packed and bandaged but was obviously still painful. The second he had no bruises on his neck so it was not the man he had choked out. No, this was the elusive third attacker and cause of Mycroft's thudding head. He took in as many details about each of them as possible, planning on finding them again if the opportunity ever presented itself.

Instead of speaking, Broken Nose opened up a phone and punched in a number, then held it up to Mycroft's ear so he could speak and hear freely. It was a curious pose and obviously uncomfortable for the man, which Mycroft relished as he tentatively said "Hello?"

"Hello Mycroft Holmes." said the voice on the other end. "You spoiled my party."

"Moriarty."

"A rose by any other name, Mycroft. You don't mind if I call you Mycroft, do you? I just feel so close to you after all we've been through. I try to blow up your brother, you throw my best friend off a balcony, I make a visit to your ex-girlfriend. Although I think you need to admit, that last one was kind of a favor. You can't be too sad her lover's dead. Really, you should be saying thank you."

Mycroft inhaled deeply and took his time to speak. "Should I?"

"I mean, I took out the competition for you! You're cleared for landing now. She's alive, by the way, the woman. It's up to you if it stays that way."

There was a break in conversation and he heard a radio being turned on, then adjusted. Something loud and in Japanese started playing and then got softer as the volume was turned down. "Sorry. Mood music. Where was I...no don't tell me. ...Right! Callie is alive and it's really up to you if she stays that way. That's got such a punch to it, doesn't it? Almost like a Bond villain. I feel like I should have a pussy cat and a fireplace. Do you like James Bond? Oh you must, you're British. Who's your favorite?"

When Mycroft didn't answer, Moriarty said, "I just told you that I hold the life of the woman you love in my hands and you won't answer a question as easy as 'Who is your favorite Bond'? Well I can just kill her right now the.."

"Connery." Mycroft interrupted. His mind spun rapidly and he found himself laughing nervously. "I thought it must be trick question because everyone's favorite Bond is Connery."

"I dunno, I've always liked Timothy Dalton. He's really more of a villain himself but as you can tell, that's kind of what I go for. There is something to be said for Daniel Craig, good abs. I really need to get to the gym more often."

"What is it that you _want _from me, Moriarty?"

"Please, call me Jim."

"Jim, then. What do you want?"

"A woman who will love me for all my faults." he answered in the same tone that belied neither seriousness nor levity.

"What do you want that I can give you?"

"A truce."

Negotiating was such a natural state for Mycroft that he momentarily forgot the danger of his situation and who he was dealing with. He laughed. "Pardon?"

"Now Mycroft, My Croft. What exactly is a croft, anyway? You heard me. I think it's time we call a truce."

"Why should I agree to that?"

"Apart from the fact that you're tied to a chair with a gun on you and your lady love is in my evil grasp? It makes sense. Neither of us is benefiting from this little war of ours. I've got bigger fish to fry than Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes and you surely would like to be able to enjoy fatherhood. Good pull on Molly by the way. She's just a tiger in bed, right? So...needy. I always liked that. Basically, no one else that you love needs to die. You can prevent that."

"Why should I believe you won't just kill me at the first chance? Or Sherlock, or Callie?"

"Because I don't want to be hunted. It's not how I operate. I'm a little flamboyant, love a show, hate to cower. It's a good deal I'm offering you here. I stay out of England and you leave me alone to do what I please. Everyone wins."

"Except the people you'll hurt."

"People get hurt every day. It's the nature of life. I can tell you're not really on board with this but I think you're missing the bigger picture."

"Enlighten me."

"Say yes. I go away, for awhile at least. Your son grows up. You can read him his bedtime stories. Give your brother time to learn a little self-control. Callie gets a nice cocktail so she won't remember any of the names or face and goes to the hospital. You can sleep easy. Say no, then I kill Callie. But first I rape her. Then I let my friends have a turn. I make her wish for death but I won't give it to her for days and days. When she's broken and barely even human anymore, then I'll kill her. Now think about this, you're in her house. Her fiance is dead. You've got blood all over you. Whose to say where her body would wind up? Whose to say it wouldn't look an awful lot like you murdered her? Police aren't that smart Mycroft, don't count on them to save you."

"I believe I am beginning to see your point."

"So like I said, a truce."

"For how long?"

"For as long as it can last. For long enough."

Was there another choice? He didn't see one. He felt like a lobster over a pot, a mouse in a trap, a bird in the cross hairs. If he said no, it would be over, for everyone and everything he cared about. His hand was being forced, and it was done so perfectly even he had to admire it.

"Agreed."

**Ans: Special Thanks to Roxanne-Michal. You guys should see my stuff before she reads it. I always write better even if all she does is peek. She also finally updated her story so make sure to check it out. Also thanks to Tadpole for taking a real interest in the story and all of my repeat readers and reviewers; I feel like people are invested and it makes me not want to disappoint anyone - Meredith Riddle, IbegtoDreamandDiffer, BroadwayB, Miggs, Chalcedony Rivers, Volce Voice and Sylvia Griffin to name a few. **

**If you enjoyed, please 1) keep reading! 2) review if you'd like to 3) Go read Roxanne-Michael's excellent FINALLY updated Sherlock fic. **


	15. Chapter 15

**Dearest, Chapter 15**

**A Fanfiction by Hrlyqin**

The room was still swirling with steam from the shower as Molly set the tray down on the bed, glancing nervously at the open bathroom door and then doing a last minute adjustment on the orange slices. She just finished twisting them a little to the left as John came out, toweling off his hair as he did some kind of morning jig, making his way back to the bed.

"For me?" he asked.

"Well, for us. I wasn't sure what you liked, so there's some eggs, and some fruit ...things, and then there's toast, I've got butter or jam or syrup. Whichever." Her fingers found her way to her ponytail and started twisting it nervously as she was certainly making a fool of herself. She was just working up a really good knot when John leaned forward and reached out, making her stop and then stealing her fingers away from her to kiss them lightly.

"You don't need to be so nervous all the time." he said matter of factly, inspecting the side of her hand and then kissing that lightly as well. "I don't bite, I promise." He punctuated the sentence by nipping at her skin ever so slightly, which nearly sent her reeling and all she could do was blush and curl her legs inward as everything in her got very warm. His mouth started making a trail of tiny snaps up her arm as his other hand pushed the tray off to the side and let him come closer to her.

She leaned forward, letting her mouth open just a bit in anticipation of that treacherous, teasing mouth finishing it's upward truck when someone started banging on the door. Both of their heads swiveled towards the front of the house and John let out a groan, leaning his forehead against her chest.

"Who in the world could that be?"

.

.

.

Molly's eyes popped open and she turned her head in the same direction, towards the front door, as someone knocked again. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried desperately to catch the unraveling threads of her dream before giving up in despair and swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Whoever it was wasn't going away. She hoped it was at least something important.

Despite the night being cold, she felt a bit overheated as she stumbled over to the wall panel and punched in the code to bring up the camera over the front door. Mycroft Holmes was standing on the stoop, taking turns banging on the door with his umbrella and waving it in front of him like a flag as he looked at where he knew the camera was. Molly grabbed her robe and fastened it tightly over her nightclothes before she went to let him in.

"Mycroft," she said as she opened the door. "What's wrong?"

"Wrong? Why would something be wrong?"

"Well because..." she faltered, was this a trick question? "Because you're here. D'you know what time it is?" she yawned as if to emphasis her point.

"Mycroft Holmes doesn't ask what time it is, he decides."

".. …. …. pardon?"

"Molly," he rubbed his hands up and down her arms in a gesture of greeting, "Nothing's wrong. I just wanted to see you and Jamie."

"Oh?" She tried not to let herself be too pleased. It was really really late, after all."

"Yes. You look well. Have you lost weight?"

"Maybe a bit." Now she was definitely pleased. "Can I get you something? A coffee? Some tea?"

"Tea would be marvelous." He unbuttoned his jacket and dropped it over the chair, letting his umbrella lean up against the wall. His toe just caught it as he walked away and he tripped, nearly colliding with the end table, before making a recovery and just straightening his vest as if he meant to do that all along. "I'll just go check on Jamie."

"Oh but he's asleep."

"I promise not to wake him. Did you say something about tea?"

Her cheeks reddened as she ducked her head. "I'll go and get it."

She went into the kitchen and busied herself with the kettle, fighting off more yawns as she shook her head back and forth and stood on one foot, then the other, forcing her body into a more wakeful state. She hadn't gotten decent sleep in forever, and that dream... she'd give anything just to slip back under the covers right now and pick up where she left off. But Mycroft had done so much for her, and for Jamie, she couldn't exactly leave him outside like a vagrant.

Still, his timing was atrocious.

Then her mind went back to a certain doctor friend of hers and she drifted away in thought if not in slumber, losing track of minutes until the tea kettle whistled. She picked out a nice chamomile blend and got a tray ready, bringing it out to the living room before wandering down the hallway to Jamie's nursery. It was deathly quiet, maybe Mycroft had fallen asleep in there.

The room was dark so she pushed the door open gently, not wanting to disturb either of the boys. Mycroft was just... sitting there. It was weird. In the dark. He had pulled the rocking chair up so it was next to the crib and was slumped down, one hand dangling carelessly as he looked at the baby. He didn't even seem to notice she was there until she cleared her throat. When he looked over at her, she tried to hide it but she was so surprised. Mycroft looked (old-tired-depressed-lonely) so very worn out.

"Was I ever so young?" he asked her.

She took a few steps into the room slowly. "We all were. It's hard to imagine being so tiny."

"Or so innocent. Look at how he sleeps. Not a care in the world. No idea how much we've all gone through, to get him here. No idea how many expectations are on his little shoulders. No idea how hard the road ahead is."

She hesitated. This was... .well it was strange. Mycroft was like your grandfather, he always seemed to know everything and he always seemed so calm about whatever was going on, even if it was working out how to cover up the father of your child who might very well be out to kill you all. But this wasn't calm. It was the deep end of the pool compared to calm and it was a little bit scary. She tried changing the subject. "He's such a good boy. He knows when I'm tired or sad or I've just had a long day and he doesn't cry, he likes to sit with me and watch the telly while I unwind."

Mycroft nodded to indicate that he heard her but he didn't offer comment or even look her way, he just kept staring at the baby with eyes that seemed empty. She continued. "And he's starting to have his favorites. You couldn't imagine. He loves anything that's blue. He's got a blue blankey and a blue elephant. Like he's a real little person. He won't sleep until someone reads him The Poky Little Puppy. It was Jemima Puddleduck until last week, but I think he might be all ducked out." she laughed nervously. "Um... … please say something."

"Am I making you nervous, Molly?"

She retreated back the few steps she had taken. "A little." she replied honestly.

"Good. I should. I should make people nervous. Are we friends, would you say?" he turned his head slowly to look at her and his eyes narrowed as he said it. His voice was quiet. She knew that this was silly but she didn't feel safe right now. She thought that maybe Mycroft was making her feel this way on purpose, and that made it worse.

"Of course we're friends. You're a very good friend Mycroft. You're wonderful, everything that you've given me. Even though I didn't really know you that well. I also," she added carefully, "know you would never let anything happen to me or Jamie."

"Yes." he ran his hand along the top railing of the crib, his voice as even as the strip of wood. "That's what people think of their friends. HE would NEVER hurt me, he's my friend. They don't realize how terribly complicated life is. Sometimes, no matter how much you don't want to, you have to do things that will hurt people. It's what men do. We make decisions that will hurt people, because sometimes it's the only way."

"Mycroft, I..."

Before she could finish, he got up, wavering on his feet as he rose. He walked over to her slowly, letting Molly back away until she was against the wall. As he neared her, she smelled something rich and sweet on his skin and breath. Whiskey, maybe, or bourbon. The scent got stronger as he leaned in until they were nearly touching and she shrank away, wanting to just disappear. His eyes were very coldly appraising her, judging her fear, drinking it in and it struck her that she had never seen Mycroft look quite so much like Sherlock as he did right now. She winced, knowing that it was plain as day that she was scared and not caring. Mycroft bent his head down and he kissed her cheek, being ever so gently as she let out a little whimper. 

"I'm a good man, Molly."

"I know." she nodded, wanting to cry.

"But sometimes good men have to do terrible things. We don't have a choice. Do you understand?"

"I understand, I promise." she nodded again.

"I wouldn't, if there was any other way."

"I know. I know."

"I want you to remember that. If it ever all comes out, remember that I didn't have a choice." He came forward again, the stink of alcohol clogging her nose, and kissed her other cheek. She had never had a kiss seem so much like a blade but it seemed to cut her. Then as quickly as he had come he was leaving. She stayed pressed against the wall, unable to move or breath until she heard him open the front door and walk out, his steps heavy.

When the door closed again, she slumped downward, collapsing for a moment before she rushed forward to check on Jamie. She scooped him up and he awoke, starting to wail as she checked him all over for spots or marks or anything. Even when she was sure he was okay, she took him with her as she ran to the front of the house, making sure the door was shut and locked before going back to her bedroom and snatching her cell phone off the dresser. She set Jamie down on the bed and put pillows on either side of him, rubbing his tummy and trying to get him to sleep again now as she dialed the phone.

"Please pick up... please..."

She shushed Jamie and waited as it rang. It was late. No sane person would answer this late at night.

"Hello?" John said.

"Oh thank goodness." she said as a reply.

"Molly?"

"Yes, sorry. I'm sorry to call so late. It's just," she couldn't finish her sentence because she started crying. John stayed on the line with her, asking what happened in every way he could, while she sobbed for a few minutes. She felt like something had slammed into her chest and was pressing down on her, not letting her talk or think or do anything but cry. So she just cried. When she was able to breathe again, she started talking again with a string of apologies until he cut her off abruptly.

"It's fine, stop saying you're sorry, just please tell me what's wrong."

"Mycroft was here. He woke me up and I let him in, he said he wanted to see Jamie. But he was drunk and I didn't know and then he said all these things. I know that sounds stupid but I was so frightened. I don't even know why. I'm sor.. .. I shouldn't have called. It was rude. I just needed to talk to someone until I could calm down."

"It's fine." he repeated. "Do you want me to come over?"

"No," she shook her head even though he couldn't see it. She felt so ridiculous now. She was just overreacting. "We'll be okay."

"I don't mind."

An hour ago she would have given her pinky finger for John to be begging to come over to her house. But she shouldn't have even called him. He was her friend, her good friend (as he himself had told her), not her boyfriend and it was wrong of her to impose on him like this. He probably had some kind of fabulous date tomorrow with a super model or a neurosurgeon or something and he'd need his sleep.

Besides, she didn't want him to see her like this. "No, really, we're okay."

"You know that Mycroft would never do anything, right?"

"I know." she breathed in but it was shaky.

John was quiet after that. She thought he may have hung up except she could hear him breathing too, slow contemplative breaths. "Well, I'm awake now. Doesn't seem like I'll be able to sleep. Sherlock will probably just blow something up if I tried to anyway. I think I might run out, get a pizza or something. Since you're awake too, do you think you could stand my company?"

He made her laugh and it was so startling, to laugh when her face hurt from crying. "You really don't need to. I promise."

"I know I don't need to. But I'm hungry now. We can put some in a blender for the baby."

She started laughing again. "Alright. Give me a minute to get decent and put away all the fire arms."

"I'll see you in a few then."


	16. Chapter 16

**DEAREST – A Fanfiction by Hrlyqin (based on intellectual properties owned by their original creators)**

**Chapter 16**

John hung up the phone and rubbed his hands over his face. Christ but he was tired. All he wanted to do was just flop back over and drool on his pillow. Steeling himself, he forced his body out of bed and down to the loo to wash up and brush his teeth. Soldier, he kept reminding himself, he had been a soldier and if he could run around the damn desert trying to stitch up bullet wounds he could stand to lose a little sleep. Especially for a friend.

He wondered if he should call Mycroft maybe. No, bad plan. Good way to get himself kidnapped. 'Hello sorry to disturb you but your ex just phoned me up because she thinks you're dangerous and by the way I'm on my way over there now. Want me to pass along a message?'. He felt much less soldierly thinking about the prospects of such a conversation. He knew he was on shaky ground about the whole thing. He mulled over the situation while he pulled on some jeans and a reasonably clean jumper. On the one hand, he really liked Molly. She was a little bit weird maybe and reminded him of his mum's cat when she was nervous, but underneath all that awkwardness she was genuine, funny and warm. He could see them being more than friends, if he let it go that way. On the other hand though, Molly had been kind of infatuated with his flatmate which, while he could understand it, made things complicated, and then to top it off she had some kind of clandestine affair with said flatmate's reptilian brother. Who liked to abduct people as a way of inviting them over and was powerful enough to just make someone disappear if he got pissy enough.

Suddenly it wasn't so fun to think about anymore. Molly had probably just been overreacting, even she had said it. But if there was something really wrong with Mycroft... .. .. well, that wasn't good for anyone, was it?

Sherlock might have been asleep, if he were normal in the least, but no, John came into the living room and saw him in repose, fingers steepled, robe all rumpled up around him. Toby was stretched out on the arm of the sofa behind him, his cat nose stuck amidst the mess of Sherlock's hair.

"Going out?" Sherlock asked without moving in the least.

"Yeah. I was going to pop in at Molly's."

"A late night visit. Please bring protection. You never know about people these days."

"No." his hand tightened into a fist around his keys. "It's not like that. She's upset. Mycroft just showed up and scared her witless."

"That wouldn't be difficu..."

"Stop. I'm going to see my friend because that's what friends do. You're going to call your brother and make sure he's okay because that's what brothers do."

"Am I?"

"Yes, you are or..." he fumbled for a really decent line, "or I'm going to bring someone in to clean this entire place good and solid. Toss out anything with mold on it. Rearrange all the books. Clean out the fridge."

"You wouldn't." Sherlock sprang up, Toby jumping out of the way of the war of wills.

"Try me."

"Fine." he snatched his phone off the coffee table and tapped buttons until he could turn it and show John Mycroft's name and number on the display. "There's no need to make threats."

John stared Sherlock down (or up, as it were) and Sherlock stared back until they both cracked a smile at more or less the same time and John headed out. Sherlock watched the door as he left, then watched the door for a few seconds after before resume his post on the couch and starting to text.

By the time John got to Molly's (with pizza), it was arguably late enough to be indecent. He may have underestimated the difficulty of finding a pizza place that was open besides Angelo's. He knocked on the door and had long enough to notice that there were little dents around the knocker before Molly opened up.

If he had thrown on the easiest thing to find, she had gotten out the good sweater and the jeans that were just a little bit tight and brushed her hair a dozen times. You would have to look really hard to see that she had been crying, and she really was a vision apart from some spit-up on her sleeve, which he wasn't going to tell her about. He felt a little bit stupid standing on the stoop, like he always had waiting for a date with her Dad at the front door glaring at him when he was a teenager. All this ran through his head and then he realized Molly was looking at him expectantly and just a little bit strangely. "Hello." he said finally, "I come bearing pizza. Is Jamie awake?"

"No I just set him down again. Come in, come in, it's chilly out." She waved him inside and he shifted on his feet while she got the locks all done up again. "If you want to sit down in the living room, I'll get some drinks. Tea, coffee, there's soda pop or maybe...some wine?"

"If we're having a midnight pizza party, I think wine is absolutely called for."

"Oh...OK." she ran her hand through her hair and her eye brows went up just a little before she skittered off to the kitchen and he got settled in the living room. She followed behind him a minute later with wine and glasses and plates, serving him before she sat down for herself. John allowed her to get in a few bites and a good long sip of wine before he asked her what had happened earlier.

"It was nothing, really. I just got scared. Mycroft came over and he said he wanted to see Jamie, but something was weird. I was making tea and when I went into the nursery, he was sitting in the dark. Isn't that strange?" she paused and John nodded. "I didn't realize that he had been drinking but then he started saying all these things, and none of it made sense. I probably just wasn't smart enough to understand what he meant."

"No," John said emphatically, "don't think that."

She took a second to beam under the fact that John had just called her smart (no one ever did) before continuing. "He kept telling me that he didn't have a choice, that I needed to remember that, and he seemed crazy. It was scary. I thought he might do something. So I just kept agreeing and hoping he would leave."

"His secretary, the old one, something happened to her last month. I read about it in the papers. Her fiance died. They said it was a break-in."

"Oh my god that's horrible, even for her. I mean, it's horrible for anyone. It's just that she didn't like me so it's horrible even for her. Not that disliking me is a reason someone should be attacked or anything but..."

John held his hand up in a 'stop' gesture and she filled her mouth with wine before she could make more of an ass of herself. Luckily, John didn't seem annoyed, just amused. They dug into more pizza and the wine went quicker than she expected while they made small talk that didn't involve politics or religion or anyone named Holmes. They didn't hit a lull in the conversation until Molly went to get a second bottle of wine and check on Jamie. When she came back, John was in a quiet mood, she could tell immediately, so she just set the bottle down and sat and waited until he felt like sharing.

"Molly, everything that Mycroft said, about him not having a choice. You don't think he was talking about that break-in, do you?"

"What, like he had something to do with it?"

"The man died. The woman, his secretary, didn't. Mycroft was pretty upset when she quit."

"But that's …. that's ridiculous. Mycroft wouldn't do anything like that."

John gave her a look.

"Or maybe he would but, he wouldn't. He just couldn't. He's a good person, John."

"He's been acting weird lately. Weird even for him. You've seen that."

"No. He's not like that."

"Think about it. Mycroft gets what Mycroft wants, wouldn't you say? I'd hate to think what would happen to someone stupid enough to tell him no, or make him mad."

Molly set down her pizza. She felt sick. It was stupid, and disloyal of her, to even think something like that. But she couldn't deny that John had a point, and John didn't even know the half of it. He thought that Mycroft and Molly had been together, but really Mycroft had been having some sort of off and on romance with this other woman (Callie, Molly reminded herself, Mycroft said her name was Callie) for God knows how long. She couldn't imagine how hurt he was when she broke things off, and if it had been because of his ruse with Molly, she could see how Mycroft would blame her. It made sense.

"I think I'm going to throw up." she covered her mouth with her hand, not able to decide between nausea and hysteria. Tears sprang to her sore tired eyes and her breath was shuddery. This couldn't be happening.

"Oh shit. No, Molly, I'm sorry, I'm just... blathering. It's the wine. I'm sure he didn't have anything to do with it. He's the father of your child, not some psychopath." He reached over very very slowly, giving her enough time to shrug away if she wanted, and put his hand on her shoulder and then folded her into a hug against him. "Sorry, okay?"

She gave a few more kittenlike mewls and then quieted. She could heard the dull thump of his heart cushioned by cotton and wool and skin. He was warm, like a seat in front of the fire, and he smelled a little bit like aloe for from reason. After testing out the water a little, John started running his fingers lightly along her back and his head shifted so instead of just cradling her, Molly became aware that his face was right next to hers, the line of his jaw along her forehead and then moving lower, his mouth coming into line with hers but not touching it, not yet. They were frozen in a moment of anticipation and all she had to do was let something happen. It was all perfect. But then it wasn't. The father of her child. If he only knew. Molly pushed back away from him and got up, trying to go slowly so it wouldn't seem like she was running. "I think that's enough pizza, don't you? I'm just going to put it in the fridge." She fled the room.

Molly shoved the pizza box into the refrigerator and then leaned against the door, putting her forehead on cool metal. There were days and weeks and months when nothing happened to her. Nothing important happened for years on end. So why did this all have to happen right now? Mycroft had gone off the deep end and she had a baby to think about and then there was Jim and now this. She didn't even have Toby to talk to and he normally gave her the best advice.

She didn't hear John come into the room until he was next to her, and then he was considerate enough to cough so she wouldn't be snuck up on. He looked profoundly confused. "Did I do something wrong?"

She was forced to be honest and shake her head. "No, it's not you."

"It's not me, it's you, right?"

"Things are just very complicated for me right now."

"Things are always complicated for me." He shrugged.

"I mean, very very complicated."

"Is stuff so complicated," he asked sincerely, touching her hand, "that this isn't worth trying? Because if I'm... not understanding or I'm stepping on Mycroft's toes here or anything, just let me know. I'll still be your friend. I'm tough, I can handle it."

"I know, I know, you were a soldier." she said quietly.

"Well, damn right I was. I got shot. So tell me, I can take it."

_I never get anything for me_, Molly thought. _I do everything for everyone but when was the last time I did anything because I wanted to? When was the last time I did anything just for the hell of it? _

_Jim. _

_That's not fair, s_he told herself.

_He lives with Sherlock. They probably talk about sex. If she and John had sex, Sherlock would at some point talk about it. _

_Don't be juvenile, Molly Miranda. _

_What's the worst that could happen? _

"I have enough friends." Molly said aloud. "I'd like it if we could be something more."

**Author Notes – This was a tough chapter for me so thanks for reading it and hopefully no one is snickering right now. Romance is not my area but the fanfiction just laughed when I told it that. Look forward to more Action! Death! Intrigue! Angst! Coming soon. **

**Special Thanks to Roxanne-Michal, my sounding board, who you can and SHOULD look up for a jolly good fic with a much better written romance blooming, as well as Chalcedony Rivers and TadPole11, whose reviews of Chapter 15 honestly got my a little verklempt. **

**Keeping Reading! ~hrlyqin **


	17. Chapter 17

**DEAREST**

**(by Hrlyqin)**

**Chapter 17**

At first, Sherlock tried the straight-forward approach.

_John is rushing to Molly's house. What did you do? _

_SH _

_If you don't tell me, I will have to guess. You know how much I hate guessing._

_SH_

_The very moment John gets home, he will tell me anyway, you do realize that. _

_SH_

Sherlock waited. Then he waited more. He began to go over the details of the periodic table of elements in his mind and had gotten to Bismuth when he decided that the straight-forward approach would not work. Very well, plan B.

_There is a news story about looming economic collapse in Dubai. Your work? _

_SH_

_What could you possibly have against Dubai? _

_SH_

_I have heard they cater to wealthy, power hungry caucasians. Perhaps you should reconsider. _

_SH _

He again waited. For a moment, he considered the possibility that Mycroft did not have his phone or even that his phone was not turned on. But that was preposterous. Mycroft being separated from his phone would be akin to the Queen deciding she felt like a nice cool dip in the Thames. No. He had his phone. He was simply ignoring Sherlock.

Sherlock did not process being ignored with grace and dignity. Now, he not only needed to find out what had happened at Molly's house but he needed to tell Mycroft off as well. So, in desperation, he stopped texting and started leaving voice mails.

"Mycroft, brother dear, I heard that you have been exceptionally naughty tonight. Is Molly pregnant again?"

"Answer your phone, this is childish."

"John and Molly are most likely having sex right now. Do you imagine she likes to be on top? I do. Call me."

"Have I mentioned that you've gained weight? You're absolutely ballooning."

"You know I won't stop calling until we speak."

"There was a time, Mycroft, when you would have welcomed my invitation to converse. You would have begged me."

"Remember this the next time you blame our estrangement on me."

In the space of two hours, he left repeated voice mails until a kindly electronic voice told him that the mailbox was full. It was now well past 2 am. Mycroft could be sleeping, but Sherlock didn't think so. If he was, Sherlock did not really care. He had been denied and he had the scent now, a mystery to unravel, no matter how mundane. If John were here, Sherlock knew what he would say. He could visualize him in his night pants and one of his many colored tee shirts, leaning on the door frame, hair sticking out in all directions, telling him to just leave it alone or at least wait until morning.

Unfortunately, John wasn't here.

Sherlock phoned for a taxi, got dressed, carefully knotted his scarf and then headed to his brother's house.

He had not thought through what he would do if no one answered the door. But luck was with him as Lindley was quick to open up. That only deepened the intrigue as normally surely Lindley would have retired by now. But as he nodded to the man and passed him, Sherlock could read (_lack of sleep, irregular eating, additional physical stress, socks mismatched, burn on hand from hot tea, reduced vitamin D intake_) concern for Mycroft clearly. Whatever was going on, it was apparent to even the most unobservant of people.

He followed the sounds and smells of habitation into Mycroft's study and found his brother in front of the fireplace, watching the flames. Sherlock noted with satisfaction that his phone was on the arm of the chair, clearly being checked frequently still. Since Mycroft offered no salutation, Sherlock was free to absorb the atmosphere of the room before he had to interact.

Phone on arm of chair, so he was looking at it and ignoring Sherlock. Why was the phone not on the end table? All of the space there was taken up by a bottle of whiskey, a bottle of bourbon and some manner of mixer (he would need to get closer to say what it was with certainty) as well as a half filled glass. It was too warm for a fire but there was a fire none the less. As he circled him (rather like a wolf stalking it's prey) Sherlock could see Mycroft had a stack of newspapers piled on his lap with paged marked and folded, even though judging by the glassiness of his eyes he was far past actually reading anything.

After taking it all in, Sherlock swept his coat off with a flourish and sat in the chair opposite him.

"Mycroft." he nodded.

"Sure-lock. For someone so keen on deduction, you don't exactly take a hint."

"Oh that was a hint? Ignoring my texts, not answering when I phoned? Please. You know me better than that."

Mycroft snatched his drink up and took a gulp, then set it back down and started massaging his temples, as if the presence of Sherlock was simply too much to bear. "For once in your life, could you please let things just go?"

"What. Happened. Tonight. At Molly's?"

"We had a disagreement."

"John said you frightened her."

"I may have. It wasn't on purpose."

"Why were you there at all?"

"Why are you here?"

"Mycroft. Look at me. What is going on?" Sherlock leaned over to bridge the gap between them and snatched the first few newspapers off the top of the pile. "What is all this? Bombing in Ireland, not exactly newsworthy. Bank Robbery in Switzerland. Assassination in Greece. You.. … . . ah, I see. Moriarty. You think he is behind these."

"I **know** he is behind them."

"So then why are we sitting here? Why are you terrorizing the Molly Hoopers of the world when he's out there? Send a plane, send a tank, send a UFO, go get him. I'll go. Just tell me where."

"No, Sherlock."

"What do you mean, no? This is Moriarty." Sherlock was sinking deep into something he was not comfortable with; confusion. His brain spun out of control, trying to analyze and solve even as they kept speaking.

"The situation is complicated Sherlock. I know he is behind these crimes. But, I don't know where he is. I'm sorry."

"But it's something. Chase it. Send one of your people."

"One of my people? One of My People? Listen to you. You don't even know their names. You don't know anything about them, but you want me to send them marching off to their death. People have died, do you know that? My people. Good people. So don't tell me to start handing out orders."

Chasing his own lead, Sherlock grabbed the rest of the papers and started checking dates while Mycroft finished his drink and poured another one. "All of these are from within the last five weeks. Five weeks ago, your former assistant was attacked in her home, fiance murdered. There's a connection. Have you lost your nerve? No. There's an actual connection. Moriarty was behind the attack." He leaned back in his chair. "Moriarty makes a strike against you and you retreat like something out of a Dickens novel. … don't look at me like that, I did graduate...did you hire him? Hmm, interesting but no. If you wanted her attacked and him dead, you have people, as we've just covered. So Moriarty makes the attack to show you your own impotence. It wasn't him personally. Not even you could pass up that chance. He ordered it. He let you know he ordered it. I was right the first time. You've lost your nerve for the hunt, so now you blame yourself for the atrocities he commits while you let him go free."

"Yes, that's it in a nutshell, you've got me entirely figured out. Good work, now go away."

"You're not saying I'm wrong."

"Moriarty was behind the attack, I don't know any more than that. I would tell you if I did. Maybe it does unman me, the fact that people I care about are dropping dead."

"Then give it to me. Give me your intel and I will take over."

"Suddenly interested in pursuing a career? My, my. A shadow just passed over the moon."

"Sarcasm is the sanctuary of dull minds."

"You would know."

"And you.. .. don't change the subject. I will take over. You don't need to worry anymore."

"I said NO!" Mycroft shouted at him. "The facts are that you can get off your arse at any time and find him, if you really wanted to, so don't beg me for my investigation file. You want him, you go and get him. But it is complicated, more complicated than you could possibly fathom because you may understand the science of the universe but you will never, ever, ever understand people and that's what this is about. This is not criminal logic. It's revenge and love and hatred and when it all comes down to it, you don't get it and you never will. So I will handle this, thank you, however the hell I see fit to."

"I _brought_ you Moriarty." Sherlock hissed.

"Yes, you brought him to me by letting him run around London with bombs because you thought it was a game. The woman, what was her name, the one who died because of **you**? When John has nightmares about having explosives strapped to his body, do you remind him that it was all **your** fault? Your best friend, your only friend, almost died, all of us are in danger, lives have been lost and you, Sherlock Holmes, could have stopped this when it began but you had to **play**."

The effect on Sherlock was as if he had been slapped. His eyes grew narrow and his lips thin. Already sitting striaght up, he rigidly rose from the chair and unceremoniously dropped the newspapers on the floor. "Fine. You handle it. But actually handle it Mycroft." he said in quiet voice. "You don't want to have to live with letting everyone you love down."

"You would know." Mycroft said again.

Sherlock, who was halfway out of the room, turned and sneered. "Brilliant comeback. The powerful man, alone and drunk in his study. Seems familiar somehow, but why..." he pretended to ponder it for a moment. "Oh, yes, I've got it. Father. You're his spitting image right now."

The last cut delivered, he finished marching out of the room, not even flinching when Mycroft send his glass hurtling and smashing into the wall closest to Sherlock's head. If he had been sober, he wouldn't have missed.

**Author Notes: YES, I will be bombarding everyone with story updates for awhile. I've given myself a deadline on finishing up Dearest and it's soon. Keep reading and reviewing, I will keep rolling it out. -hrlyqin**


	18. Chapter 18

**DEAREST – A Sherlock fanfiction by Hrlyqin**

**Chapter 18**

"Sherlock? Are you decent?"

Sherlock turned his head towards the sounds of John knocking at his bedroom door. "Never." he answered ruefully, to which John felt free to open the door and come in.

"Molly's going to be here soon."

"I know that."

"Are you certain you're fine with this?"

"It's a few hours. What's the worst that could happen?"

John gave him a very stern look in reply and Sherlock shrugged it away. "I'm not incompetent, do I need to remind you of that constantly?"

"Well you have it admit, sometimes you come off a little bit.. … .. "

"Distracted?"

"Autistic."

He rolled his eyes. "I'm not autistic, John. I have a perfect understanding of the world around me. I have a perfect understanding of the relation of one person to another. I am fully capable of responding to social situations in an acceptable way. I just don't care. There's a difference."

"Still,"

Sherlock closed the book he was reading a shade too hard, making a resounding thud. "If you feel that strongly, then don't go."

"Molly and I have had this planned for weeks now. I'm just nervous. You know I trust you. But you've never been alone with Jamie before, not really."

Sherlock climbed off of his bed, wrinkling the covers with his shoes, and stood before John, letting him take him in at full measure. "John, I promise nothing will happen. Mrs. Hudson leaves me alone with him all the time. It's only that this time, she's in Fitton instead of in the next room."

"Wait, she does?"

"He's my nephew John. Uncle Sherlock, remember?" He smiled in what was intended to be a reassuring manner.

"You'll call me, if anything goes wrong."

"I will."

"Or if Mycroft shows up."

"I'll hire a plane to sky write it. I haven't spoken with Mycroft in 107 days. I don't think he's going to pop out and say 'boo' just because I'm babysitting."

"107 days?"

"And nine hours."

"How is he?"

"No idea."

Downstairs, John heard a knocking and practically skipped off to get the door. Sherlock made a face at his back and his untoward display of enthusiasm. He heard the overly cheery tones of Molly coming up the stairs a minute later and then her equally enthusiastic greeting of Toby, who was presenting perched atop the refrigerator.

"Oh look at Mommy's good kitten. Putting on weight. I bet Sherlock and John are feeding you all kinds of yummies."

Sherlock gagged, took a minute to compose himself, and then walked out to say Hi. It endlessly fascinated him how two people, separately tolerable and useful, could become so cloyingly sweet and off-putting together. John Watson was by far the most amenable human being Sherlock knew, he enjoyed his company where he did few others, but even he was not immune to this. Paired with Molly, John became part of an unappetizing duo, Jolly, if you will, cuddling each other and trading pet names like 'Sugar' and 'Sweetheart' and 'Darling Dear', and endlessly sending cute pictures to each other's phones which Sherlock had to witness (along with ones much more private that John didn't think he knew about). It was an interesting study in the nature of humanity, but he had more than enough research already.

Under normal circumstances, he might have enjoyed trading words with Mycroft about it. Brother Dear was never above putting others down and when his venomous barbs were not directed at Sherlock, they were very amusing. But he was being honest in saying that they had not spoken. Mycroft had not reach out to him and Sherlock was not about to make the first move.

It was almost lonely. Almost.

They were at it, kissing each other warmly, and so intent upon it that they didn't even note Sherlock's presence as he walked past them and fetched Jamie from his carry-along, sniffing carefully before wrapping him up close to him. "Look at them," he said to the child, "don't you wonder how they breathe when they're doing that?"

Sherlock had gotten himself nicely arranged in the chair with Jamie on his lap by the time they finished and noticed him. Molly looked flushed and embarrassed. John gave him a vaguely 'bro' like expression that he could not fully understand. But it was Molly who spoke first, getting out an entire syllable before Sherlock cut her off.

"I won't do any experiments tonight. I have the fire department on speed dial. I'll only feed him what is in his bag and I will keep him away from the cat, the cat litter, outlets, the stove, mysterious puddles of standing water and any politicians that come by." His face stretched into a somewhat menacing smile which he attempted to soften when he saw John looking grim. "Have a good time Molly." he added.

"Don't wait up." she said, giving a little giggle.

"I have to, I am watching your child."

Her smile fell and John was rushing her away (it seemed like he was always doing that). Sherlock looked befuddled as they went and then turned his attention back onto Jamie. Another sniff. Still clean. He felt a pang of guilt lying to the happy couple, but only a small barely registering pang. He didn't intend to let any harm come to Jamie. It was only a tiny experiment. They would never need to know.

Sherlock pulled out a set of thick envelopes from one of the drawers and set Jamie down on the carpet with him. From the envelopes he drew out the first set of photos. One of them was of a bright red ball, one of them was of a blue flower, one was of a green door. He laid them out in front of Jamie and waited for the baby to do something.

He noted a good focus, Jamie looked at the pictures instead of ignoring them. He sensed comprehension, although at this age it was impossible to tell. After a minute, Jamie patted the blue flower with his hand and made a cooing noise, looking at Sherlock for approval.

"Good boy. Do you want to try more?"

Jamie tried to grab Sherlock's nose in response so he moved onto the next set of pictures. The color set was all blue this time. One was of a puppy (a basset hound, to be precise), one was of a fish, and one was of a dead bird. Again, he set them all out and waited to see which one the child responded to. Jamie patted each of the pictures, seeing if they moved (no doubt trying to make a connection between the photos and television, perhaps the color on Molly's set needed to be adjusted). When they didn't, he went back and forth with his pats a few times before settling on the puppy, which he patted and then slapped loudly with his hand.

"Dog." Sherlock frowned. Not a clear result. Lost in thought, Sherlock did not thwart Jamie's attack this time and he successfully grabbed his nose and then squealed with delight. "Well, you clearly have a competitive nature, that's for certain."

The third set of blue photos were all of the same woman, In one, she was smiling and happy. In one, she was asleep. In the last, she was crying. Sherlock laid them all out and again waited, like a mongoose watching a snake. After much debate and a small amount of chewing, Jamie selected the crying woman by repeated pats on that picture. "Interesting, oh, the nose again. Alright. Ow. Oh no. Jamie's got my nose! No! The horror!"

Sherlock scooped him up. He would give the results more analyzable later. One little experiment into developing cognitive processes. No harm done. He did not see what the big deal was but still, he wouldn't be telling Molly about it. He carried Jamie with him around the flat, muttering to himself as he got things set up to feed the baby. Ridiculous, he thought, that he wasn't allowed to feed Jamie in the kitchen (too much risk of accidental poisoning), but since Toby seemed to have set up camp there, at least it was convenient. As Jamie was able to sit up by himself now, at least he was spared interaction with that horrid stack of bright rings that rolled around the floor (whatever it was called) and could use a high chair. Sherlock got it out of the closet and set up in front of his desk and spread out the paraphernalia where his books normally would go.

"Let's see what we have. Creamed turkey. How precisely would one cream a turkey? Does it involve a thresher?" Sherlock opened the jar and sniffed it, then he dipped his finger in tentatively and tasted it. Not bad, actually. One could sustain themselves on this for quite some time if forced to. Jamie seemed to enjoy it too, as he was feed with minimal fussing.

"It seems like you aren't going to be man of the house for long, Jamie." Sherlock said conversationally to the baby. "You know why tonight is so special, don't you? John is going to ask Molly to marry him. People tend to rush into these things the older that they get. He's going to leave me soon, to live with you and your Mummy. I can't really blame him. There are things a man needs that he can't get here. What?" Jamie cooed. "Oh no you're far too young. I'll tell you when you're five. It's true, I care a great deal about John, a dangerous deal. I don't have enough experience with people to know if this is the normal affection one has for a best friend or something more, but if he were a little bit more broad minded maybe.. .. . .It doesn't matter. John loves Molly, soon he will move into her quaint little house and get a newspaper subscription, or whatever people do. He'll look back on his Baker Street days fondly, a wild time he had, chasing criminals down the streets of London with a lunatic. Something to 'tell the grandkids about'. I'll probably get dinner invites, 'Oh let's have Sherlock over, it's been so long since we've seen him'."

Sherlock paused in his feeding and propped his arm up on his elbow, then put his head in his hand for a minute. This was merely the lack of a decent case and the strain of Mycroft's downward spiral showing. But since it was only he and Jamie (and Toby) here, he could say it, very quietly, out loud.

"I'm going to be all alone again."


	19. Chapter 19

**DEAREST, Chapter 19 **

They were here at last. Here at the moment Sherlock had been pondering and dreading with equal enthusiasm ever since John had triumphantly returned to 221B and announced proudly "She said yes."

Sherlock did not see what the hurry was. It was true that British citizens above the age of 30 tended to court for far shorter periods than those 29 or younger, and it was true that John and Molly made 'a good couple', whatever it was that meant. But Sherlock wasn't prepared for this. He needed a few more weeks, or a few more months to adjust. It happened at a spinning pace, John and Molly becoming a pair, John proposing, and then the long process of moving his possessions out of Baker Street and over to Molly's house. Mrs. Hudson had kept joking that she could barely tell the difference since Sherlock had so much 'junk' of his own. He didn't find it a funny joke and thought that was amazingly unobservant of her. The difference was plain, everywhere he looked, nothing was the same and nothing seemed right. Her cheeriness on the subject was a mystery to him, after all, she was the one losing a tenant.

She had approached him about how he planned to handle the rent last week. As if he had time to worry about something so mundane! They had worked out an agreement where he could pay considerably less for his flat so long as he 'did not make it impossible' to rent the basement apartment out. When he had asked her what she meant by that, she sat him down and for a good thirty minutes extolled the virtues of just trying to be a little bit quieter late at night and not blowing things up in the kitchen quite so often.

Everything was indeed going to change.

Now, he was packed into a spare room in the chapel with John as they sorted out their formal wear. John has insisted that Sherlock was going to be his best man, and Sherlock felt that it was equal parts because of their friendship and to ensure that Sherlock actually had to show up for the wedding, because if he had a choice he would not. It was a true testament to his affection for the man that Sherlock was being choked to death by a tie, strapped into a vest and wearing cufflinks. At least he could chalk most of his misery up to the outfit.

John was adjusting the sash on his own costume, his formal RAF dress wear. The varying shades of blue suited John well, bringing out his eyes and making him look much younger than he had appeared before. He also wore a luminous expression and kept doing some sort of strange two-step whenever he walked across the room, as if his giddiness was too much to contain.

They were brought out of their private thoughts by Mrs. Hudson, letting them know that they were all set whenever her boys were. She shuffled away back to the pews and Sherlock knew that time had run out.

"John, I need to say something."

"I think you just did," John joked, "Something."

"Please. This isn't easy for me."

"OK," John said in that way he had of stretching the word out when he was confused. "Sorry. Go ahead."

Sherlock had been preparing his speech since he had decided to make it. This was different from the toast he would need to inevitably give later. He needed to say things to John privately and he hoped that it sounded right. Emotional confessions were not his forte.

"You know that I don't attach myself to many people. Human beings as a species are lazy, unintelligent, dull and a source of endless disappointment to others. I just never saw the point. But then I met you. I have tried to deduce what sets you apart so much from everyone else but I can't. You've been brave and loyal to me when no one ever asked you to be. You just wanted a flat share, you never expected anything, the investigations, Moriarty, Mycroft even, but you stuck with me anyway. I know it seems like I don't. … . appreciate it, but I do. I am a different person for having known you. Now, you're getting married and you'll have a family and it will all be different for you. You won't have nearly as much time as you did before and if we aren't...as close as we have been, I understand. I don't wish you to feel guilty about it. You've given me so much and you deserve to be happy."

"Sherlock, I'm getting married, I'm not dying. I'm not even moving that far away." John insisted.

"None the less, now that you cannot be forced to constantly interact with me because of cohabitation..."

However Sherlock was going to finish that sentence, he did not get a chance to because impulsively, John hugged him. "Don't be a stupid git. I'm not going to abandon you. I love you."

"You...love... me...?"

"Of course I do. You're my best mate." His voice dropped to a whisper. "And if you ever get it in your mind to tell anyone I said that, I'll kill you. I know how to make it look like an accident."

"Of course." Sherlock separated himself from John and almost as if it were choreographed, both of them turned their heads in opposite directions to wipe at dust that must have gotten in their eyes. "I guess we can't really put it off any longer. Although, I do have a taxi waiting just out back."

"I don't think I'll need an escape route, thank you. Ready?"

"Ready." Sherlock nodded. "After you, Doctor Watson."

"No no, after you Holmes, I insist."

The two men made their way out and stood at the front of the chapel and stood on ceremony (literally) with the rest of the groomsmen. This was Sherlock's first chance to see the decorations and he thought they were very perfectly Molly. Everything was pink. The carpet down the aisle was pink. The bows at the end of each pew was pink. The flowers stuck here, there, and everywhere were pink. The other major decorative motif seemed to be little bells. Hiding amongst the pink flowers, at the center of the pink bows, all over were little gold bells. Bizarre. Continuing with this theme, as Molly's bridesmaids came out, they were clad in pale pink dresses with bright pink sashes and each carried a spray of white and pink flowers. It took Sherlock a moment before he recognized them from the baby shower. Names escaped him but it was definitely the heavyset nurse, the Asian lesbian and the vain school friend. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to nod or clap so he just stayed still as they made their way up.

Every head turned for Molly Hooper when she appeared at the end of the procession. She had probably never gotten so much attention in her life, and would not likely again, Sherlock thought cynically. But his cynicism was cut by the fact that he had to admit she made a very beautiful bride. Perhaps the lady at the dress shop had put the brakes on her choices or Molly purposefully wanted to shine brighter than anything else, whatever the reason, she accomplished it. Her dress was a very bright shade of white, offset by little swirls on pale pink under the skirt and around the bodice, offset by the surprising choice of black trim. Where she normally looked skittish or anxious, right now she looked serene and radiant, and John, looking at her, it was a look of awe. When she reached the front of the line and joined her hands together with his, it seemed the entire assembled group let out a happy sigh.

Sherlock felt faint.

He was torn between envy of their devotion and the desire to vomit. The emotions ran about equal as he listened to their vows and promises to love, honor and cherish. He mentally drifted and started to recite the various brands of chemical lubricants commercially available until it was time for him to hand John the rings, which he did with eloquence and dignity for all of five seconds.

Molly slipped on John's ring and John put Molly's on delicately (Sherlock noticed she had gotten a manicure as well) and recited, "With this ring, I thee wed."

"Then by the power vested in me by God, I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss your bride."

Quietly, to John, Molly whispered "Yippee!" and then they kissed. The audience clapped and cheered. The bridesmaids started weeping. Sherlock gagged.

The reception was a much more interesting venue for him. Plied by the free flowing alcohol, people were pairing up in curious ways, committing what must be criminal acts with their attempts at dancing and making increasingly cruel and biting remarks about the other guests. He drifted in the background, taking a little nip of canape here, a small sip of champagne there, observing and cataloging everyone and everything in sight. He was asked to dance a full sixteen times (13 women, 3 men) and only relented twice, once for Mrs. Hudson (who danced wonderfully) and once for Molly.

Taking her out onto the floor, he paid her the socially expected compliments. "You look very lovely, Molly."

"Thank you. You don't have to say that though."

"Really? I thought I did."

"Stop trying to m-make me nervous. Not today, please. I want to talk to you anyway."

"Do tell."

"First, thank you for talking to Mycroft. It would just be so awkward if he were here."

"I didn't speak to him. I suspect he could figure that out for himself. Besides, his tuxedo probably doesn't fit anymore."

"Oh. Well. Um, I also just wanted to say to you," she paused while he twirled her in a little spin, "that I'm sorry."

"What are you sorry for?"

"I never meant to take him away from you, Sherlock."

They both looked over at John, who was sitting with Detective Lestrade, both of them laughing loudly about something.

"Don't be silly, Molly. He's … He was my flatmate."

"And your friend. I can't imagine how you must feel, your best friend running over with some stupid girl and leaving you by yourself."

He nearly stepped on her toes but recovered at the last second. "You're not stupid, Molly. I wouldn't let John marry you if you were."

"I'm not?"

"No. You're actually very clever at times. You know how to scheme. Unfortunately, you let your heart lead you instead of your head and that is where all of the bad decisions come in. But you aren't stupid at all."

"I think that's a real compliment."

"Maybe it is."

"Anyway, John and I were talking and we thought next weekend, after we get back from Paris, maybe you'd like to come over for dinner. To the house Watson-Hooper."

"To. Dinner?" Sherlock said carefully. It was starting already. "Of course. If I don't have a case. I think Lestrade mentioned something about bodies in dumpsters."

"Really? I haven't heard..."

"Yes. In fact I think I'm going to go speak to him about it now." He freed his hands and he left the bride of the dance floor. He staked a table out in the corner and managed to avoid speaking to anyone for a full hour. He saw John looking at him curiously a few times but just shook his head. No need to worry. He was fine. Just fine. It was all fine. No dance invitations came now and people seemed to be skirting his table in general until a large lumbering woman came over and plopped herself down next to him, dropping her purse on the table.

"I bloody hate weddings." she announced.

Sherlock said absolutely nothing in response to this. It didn't seem to need a reply until she prompted, "Don't you?"

"I don't attend many." he said.

"Well I avoid them at all good damn cost normally but couldn't get around this own. It's my daughter's."

Interesting.

"You're Mrs. Hooper then."

"Miss Chastain. Never was properly married to Mr. Hooper. I know who you are. You're Sherlock Holmes. Molly told me all about you."

"That would be difficult, as Molly doesn't know all about me."

"No need to get snarky Mister. Must be a miserable day for you. Molly passing you up for your brother and then your best friend. She always was kind of slutty. Not my doing."

"Pardon me?"

"Bad self-esteem, that's what I blame. I told her a million times, you're not a pretty girl Molly, but keep your knees together and they'll be interested anyway. Men always want what they can't have. I know she carried a torch around for you though. You shouldn't have waited so long. Least you could have gotten a ride out of it before she was off the market."

"I -"

"Granted, he's not getting a prize anymore really. Childbirth, it does things to a woman. You coulda run a train through my nether regions after I had Molly. I never could get a man to stay after that."

"Miss Chastain, I -"

"Sherlock! Sherlock, there you are." John clapped him on the back. "I need to talk to you about the last of the rent that's due. Excuse us please, Felicity."

John bodily yanked him up out of his chair as Sherlock was too startled by the verbal onslaught to move properly. They stumbled away from the table and John steered him into the mens room, where Mike Stamford had the window propped open and was blowing the smoke from his cigarette out of it. "We should be safe in here."

"That woman -"

"Is my mother in law now."

"Too bad Mycroft isn't here."

"He could arrange to have her poisoned?"

"Maybe he'd get a date."

They both cracked up after that, Mike looking out of the loop. "Molly's Mum." John explained.

"Oh right. She's something out of Tolkien."

"Maybe we can steal her stash of gold. My money problems would be solved." John said in an absolutely serious manner, causing Sherlock to sputter more with laughter.

They hid in the men's room for the better part of a half hour until John wanted to go check on Molly. It was almost time for them to leave. It was silly, standing in the bathroom by himself after John left and feeling such deep misery, then a strange sensation of guilt for his misery being over his friend's happiness. Emotions were so complicated.

He peeked out of the door and watched the new Mr. and Mrs. Watson circling the room, accepting hugs and little envelopes stuffed with 'just a little something' to get them off to the right start. They were both smiling and talking but he noticed that their arms ran down and were joined at the hand for every minute of it. Fingers intertwined, new wedding rings sparkling as they caught the light. He had often wondered about the fable of the happy ending, if it actually existed. Historical records showed few examples of anyone riding off into the sunset. But if it could be true, no matter what it meant for him, he wanted it to be true for John. He really did deserve it.

The only problem was, no matter how much he wanted it, Sherlock did not think that this story was going to have a happy ending. Not for any of them.

**-END PART ONE- **


	20. Chapter 20

**DEAREST: PART TWO**

**Six Years Later**

Callie Carpenter unlocked the door to her condo, juggling bags from Holt Renfrew and Taylor's in her arms and laced onto her wrist. She had to kick the door shut with one foot and still barely made it to the decorative trunk that served as a general junk depositor just inside the living room. She started disencumbering herself from parcels and it was only when she had her hands free that she hit the light switch.

Nothing happened.

Confused, she flipped it up and down again and then moved to the next switch and tried the same thing. Damn wiring was shit in the this place. The co-op board was supposed to have organized to get the whole building rewired, but she wasn't exactly holding her breath. She dug into her purse and got out her phone, still flipping the switches up and down like that would magically fix it.

"Hi honey. I don't know when you'll get this message but the lights are out so I might need you to scare some balls into Max about actually getting an electrician down here before the party next week. Dinner by candlelight sound good? I love you. See you tonight."

She pushed the END button on her phone and that was when a hand reached out her shoulder and plucked it away from her. "Hope you don't mind if we do it with the lights out." said a male voice behind her.

Startled, she tried to spin around but the man grabbed her, wrapping her into his arms and pressing her to his chest, even as one hand covered her mouth. "Shhhhhh," he whispered in her ear, breath hot against her neck, "Don't scream. That's the last thing you want to do."

Callie bit down on the flesh closest to her teeth and took no time to listen to the angry hiss as she made a mad dash towards the front door. Her fingers just barely brushed the knob when she was yanked off her feet, her chin smacking against the floor and filling her mouth with the hot coppery taste of blood. Blindly she kicked, connecting with something solid and she pushed towards the door again, not bothering to get up.

"Stupid bitch." His foot came down square on her back, pinning her to the ground. "Don't try to run off pretty much goes hand in hand with don't scream. But apparently I have to be specific with you." The foot came up and he grabbed her by the hair, dragging her away from the door. His kick had knocked the wind out of her for screaming but her foot flew wildly, trying to find purchase as her hands came up and scratched wildly at fingers and arms as he slid her down the hallway and deposited her on the bedroom floor.

Now it was his turn to kick the door shut and flip the light switch. There was light in here. He wanted there to be light in here. He wanted her to see his face, so she looked. 

"Do you know who I am?"

"Ji-" she paused and spat, spraying red onto the carpet. "Jim Moriarty."

"Good girl. It's been awhile, I know, and surveillance pictures never really do one justice, but it's nice to know my image has...resonance. Do you know why I'm here?"

She shook her head adamantly, hair going back and forth. "No. I don't have anything to do with Mycroft Holmes, I haven't for years. If he's done something, it doesn't have anything to do with me."

"Wouldn't the world be a nice place if that were true?"

"I haven't even talked to him since I moved. I swear. It's true."

"Yes let's talk about that." he sat down on the bed and crack, his foot came down on her ankle hard. She heard as much as felt something break and she shrank back a little, only able to go a few feet. "You up and start a new life, bright new future for yourself and out of all the big wide world you pick _Canada_?"

She didn't know what to say to that. Was she supposed to say something? He seemed to be thinking about it himself, his eyes drifting downward in thought. She got her hand on the dresser and pulled herself up, getting to her knees. There was a phone on the other side of the room, by the closet, if she could get there. Maybe if she were very quick...

"Oh stop that. You'll never make it in time. Now I really hate to use these but just so we know whose in charge," he reached into his suit jacket and withdrew a pistol, leveling it at her. "Come here and sit on the bed with me Callie."

She went, not seeing any other way. If it was sex he wanted, maybe he would get distracted for just long enough. She could bear it. She sat down next to him and he put his hand on her back, keeping the gun aimed with the other one. "We were talking about why I'm here. I need to tie up some loose ends, and you're one of them. Not that it hasn't worked out really well for me. I mean, I traded your life, and his brother, and that screaming brat child for a pretty epic Get Out of Jail Free pass. I'm sure you know that Mycroft has kind of," he made a push against her skin, "gone off the deep end. Couldn't handle the guilt of it, all those lives he could have saved. And he calls himself a politician."

"A trade... for me..."

"Oh, right! Sorry. Do you remember that whole murdered fiance thing?"

"You mean Mycroft made a deal with you, for.. .. that? For me? He let you... for me?"

"You're really going to have to fill in a few nouns and verbs there, Callie."

"He had you kill Phillip,for some kind of deal."

His hand, which since pushing her had been rubbing her back in such a calming way, stopped. Fingers drummed along her spine. "Yes." he replied to her after a minute. "Exactly. Mycroft hired me to kill Phillip. What a bastard, wouldn't you say? All because he loves you. Terrible thing."

"Is that true?"

"Oh my god, no. I mean I'm good but I'm not that good. I wish though! No, Mycroft just wanted you kept alive. Me now, I was sympathetic, I couldn't imagine living with the pain of my beloved dead. I would have been merciful."

The hand moved down along her spine and slipped into the waist of her pants, touching bare flesh. "You're a very lovely woman, Callie. A Helen, causing the crumbling of empires and laying powerful men to ruin. The world is really going to miss you."

"Please."

He shook his head. "Let's get this show on the road. I've got things to do."

"No please,"

He moved so fast, standing up and shoving her down into a sitting position. He knelt over her, stranding her knees to keep her still while lowering the barrel of the gun until it touched her forehead. It wasn't until she felt it's cool kiss that tears welled up. "Please don't. I'm pregnant."

"That's never stopped me before." Like lightening, the gun came up away from her and then it belched out fire and Callie felt a searing sharp pain in her shoulder. She gasped with pain and her body shuddered.

"Oh my God please no. Please, the baby. I'll do anything. I'm pretty. You said so yourself."

"Anything?"

"Anything."

"Sorry, not interested. Not my area." He put the gun against her forehead again.

"NO! Stop. The baby..."

"Yes yes the baby. Blah, blah, blah."

"No, not my baby. Mycroft's baby. It's not really Mycroft's."

"Oh you better make this good."

"It's yours. He told me all about it, wanted me to understand that it shouldn't affect our relationship because he didn't sleep with her. The baby was yours."

"If you're lying to me..."

"I'm not, please just go. Please."

He dropped the gun on the floor behind them and grabbed her face with both hands, forcing her to look at him. He studied her face, her expression, and she tried to put all of the honesty and earnestness she could into her eyes. "His son is your son. It's the truth. I promise."

Moriarty slid down her knees and the weight of him was off of her. She rolled onto her side and squeezed her shoulder as hard as she could, feeling her life spilling out. Her body curled inward, balling up in pain and protection of her unborn child. Please dear God just let him go away now.

"His son is my son." He was repeating. Callie stole a glance and he looked stunned, eyes wide and mouth not entirely closing. "This is... this is great. Thank you."

He knelt over her again and she winced, not knowing what to expect. But all he did was dart in and kissed her cheek. "Thank you." he said again.

It was out of pure consideration that he gave her that kiss, that moment of relief and comfort, before he shot directly into her ear, splattering the pure white bedspread in a mixture of gray, pink and red.

"I have a son."


	21. Chapter 21

**DEAREST, a fanfiction by Hrlyqin **

**part two – chapter two (chapter 21) **

Leaning on the metal railings outside the neat and trim Watson household, Sherlock blew tiny smoke rings into the air while observing the frankly alarming collection of garden gnomes that were hidden in the few bushes and also tucked into the corners of each step. They didn't even have a proper garden, why did they need... he counted... 4 garden gnomes? Did it express some deep seeded longing for suburban life?

His seething disdain for ceramic lawn creatures was interrupted by the opening of the front door and the forward launch of a small dark haired boy into his body where he impacted with a thump and wrapped little arms around his legs. "Uncle Sherlock!"

Sherlock rubbed Jamie's hair because that was the proper greeting and took one last drag of the cigarette before stubbing it out. "Curie Point." he said.

"The temperature at which an object loses it's magmatism." the boy answered.

"Magnetism."

"Mag-NEH-tism." After he said it correctly, Sherlock dug into his coat pocket and found his gum. Jamie got the first piece for his correct answer and he got the second to take care of the lingering odor of nicotine.

"I thought you quit again." John said to him.

His reply was a shrug, so John just continued, "Thanks again, for doing this. I just couldn't handle it today."

"You act like it's a chore." he replied, voice laced with only mild sarcasm. "If you make sure your room is clean will Molly let you out to play this weekend?"

"Ha. Ha. Ha. You're sticking around after right? I want to hear about that headless corpse thing."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."

There was, as there usually was, a few seconds of silence where John tried to figure out how to end the conversation. He was never very good at stopping a conversation with Sherlock Holmes as it was deeply ingrained within him that the conversation would be continued over dinner, around the living room while he tried to type and then the next morning over coffee. Saying goodbye seemed unnatural even after years of practice. "Well," he said finally, "you don't want to be late. Be good for Sherlock, okay Jammer?"

"OK Dad, love you." Jamie now had Sherlock's hand and trying to drag him away. Sherlock meant taxi to him, and he loved riding in taxis. Sometimes when he was good, Uncle Sherlock even let him wave for the taxi himself. The adult let himself be pulled away with nods to John and promises to fill him in on the criminal activities in London when they got back.

Safely secured in the taxi, Jamie, normally extremely communicative and verbally advanced for his age, was quiet as a church mouse. Sherlock gave him sidelong glances to make sure he was alright but other than that didn't bother him. It was only after he paid the driver and they were making their way across the park that he looked at the boy and asked, "What did you see?"

"So it was a lady driver which is weird because it's mostly men, not ladies. She dyes her hair because it doesn't look the same in the picture of her on the license. I know that Aunt Harry dyes her hair because she says she old now, so maybe the driver wants to look younger too. She wasn't married because I looked when you gave her the money and she didn't have a ring on like Mum and Dad's and she didn't have any pictures of kids but I saw a picture of a cat so maybe she's an older lady that never got married but has a cat. How's that?"

"I think you're getting smarter than me."

"No, stop foolin'."

"I am entirely serious."

He laughed and also beamed because he did think he was pretty smart, even if no one was as smart as Uncle Sherlock (which was one of the few things all the adults in his life agreed on – his parents loved him, Mrs. Hudson made the best cookies and Uncle Sherlock was the smartest person in the word). Maybe when he grew up he could be like Uncle Sherlock and catch bad guys and make everyone go "OOOOOO." at how smart he was, but he didn't know if he wanted that or not because Uncle Sherlock seemed very lonely and well, other stuff too. Stuff he was going to talk to Father about.

Mycroft was waiting on the bench by the pond, looking at the ducks, twirling his umbrella round and round as it dangled next to his leg. Sherlock walked Jamie up to his brother and stood him right in front of the man.

"Sherlock." Mycroft nodded.

"Mycroft." He nodded back. "Molly would like him home by five today. Text me when you're ready."

"Aye-aye." Mycroft gave him a mock salute and Sherlock pondered giving him a little salute of his own back but no, John would hear about it happening in front of Jamie and be upset. So he settled for rolling his eyes and leaving the two of them there.

"Hello Jamie." Mycroft said once Sherlock was gone.

"Hello Father."

"Do you want to sit by me and feed the ducks? I brought bread but they don't seem to like it."

Jamie sat down next to him and picked up the bread, testing it for himself to see if the ducks would eat it. After some curious inspection, they abandoned it. "Maybe they're sick of bread. It's all they ever get."

"Hmm, a sound theory. What do you think they'd like?"

"Well if all I ever got was bread, maybe I'd like some peanut butter or something."

"So next time we'll bring peanut butter, and see how that goes. You may become some sort of duck hero. Saint Jamie of the Mallards."

Jamie gave a half-hearted laugh in reply.

"What's wrong Jamie? Do you want to go home? I can text Sherlock." He drew his phone out of his pocket.

"No." he shook his head a little.

"Is there something you want to talk about?"

"...maybe."

"I am all ears. Not literally, of course. But I could be. Do you think all ears would look good on me? I should have to get them pierced, I suppose."

That got a slightly more sincere laugh from Jamie and then he was ready to talk. "Am I a freak?"

The endless twirling of the umbrella stopped dead and all of Mycroft froze, clouds passing behind his eyes at the notion someone had said that to his boy. "Where did you hear that?" he asked calmly.

"School. Freddy Thalin said I was a bastard and I said that I was because my mum didn't marry my father and that's what bastard means. I tried to show them in the dictionary but then Freddy and Robert said that it wasn't a good thing to be a bastard and I was a freak if I thought so."

"They shouldn't have said that." Mycroft sighed.

"Are you upset with me now?"

"No. Come here," he picked Jamie up and put him in his lap. "I'm not upset with you. I'm angry about the things that were said to you. Did you tell your Dad about it?"

"Mum said he might shoot someone. Would he really?"

"Yes. Likely."

"But you wouldn't?"

"No, I would hire someone to do it for me. Don't repeat that." he said quickly.

"Is being a bastard a bad thing?"

Oh St. Peter where was his mother? Did he ask her about these things? Probably, and she probably told him to ask his father.

"No, it isn't. But some people use that word to mean other things."

"Like what?"

"Bad things."

"Like what?"

"Mean things."

"Like what?"

"When someone is cruel, people say they're being a bastard. So it isn't good to say that you're fine with being a bastard."

"But I am."

"No, Jamie, you're special. I didn't marry your mother so technically you are," he said before Jamie could jump on that point, "but instead of you just having a mother and a father, you have your mother and you have your father and you have your Dad, and we all love you more than anything in the world. If I just had a plain old mom-and-dad, I would be very, very jealous of you."

"So they said it because they were jealous?"

"Yes, precisely."

"Oh! Okay that makes sense. I'm glad I asked you."

"Me too."

"I was going to ask Uncle Sherlock, but that one time that I got to go in the police car with him, the time right before Mum wouldn't let me see Uncle Sherlock for awhile? Well I remember someone called him a freak when we were looking at crime stuff and it seemed like they were being mean, so I didn't want to hurt his feelings."

"That was very nice of you." Mycroft let him off his lap and resumed his umbrella twirling. "How's your mother?" he asked after awhile.

"Good. She's not so cranky lately."

"And school? How's school?"

"I don't like my new teacher, she doesn't like explaining stuff and she gets mad when I ask too many questions and..."

Jamie kept talking but Mycroft felt the vibration of his phone in his pocket and drew it out. An email. Something urgent, from the office. If it was a woman, or someone from the club, he'd ignore it of course. He tried to ignore this, to simply put the phone away and get back to spending time with Jamie, but even as his brain was telling him to put the phone away, his fingers were opening up the email.

**MR. HOLMES - **

**RE: OPERATION CLARENCE - REPORTED EARLY THIS MORNING DEATH OF C. CARPENTER, GSW / HEAD. REPORT IN IMMEDIATELY FOR FURTHER DETAILS. **

His fingers went slack and he saw more than felt the phone dropping out of his hand and falling onto his lap. After a minute, Jamie stopped talking and looked over at him. "Father?" When Mycroft didn't answer, Jamie tapped him on the knee. "Hey. Are you OK?"

"What? Yes, fine, I just... I'm going to have to go." He recovered his phone and quickly fired a text to Sherlock. "There's an emergency, I'm sorry."

"But..."

"I know." Mycroft silenced him. "But I'll see you this weekend." Where was Sherlock? How far could he have gotten in 10 minutes. He needed to make phone calls, travel plans maybe? No. But phone calls. He'd need police reports. It had to happen now, of course. He hardly ever got to see Jamie – an afternoon here, overnight there, the occasional weekend – and now that he was having to cut it short, Molly would needle him about it, no doubt, dig the guilt a little bit deeper into his flesh. It was likely that she would decide it was too much bother since he was going to cut it short anyway and not let him keep Jamie at all when Saturday came around.

But it couldn't be helped, none of it.

Sherlock was approaching with a magnificent scowl on his face about being called back so soon. As he came towards them, the two brothers exchanged an entire conversation with glances, tilts of the head and other physical indicators. The scowl lifted and changed into a squint eyed expression of puzzlement and the wheels just beginning to turn in his brain.

"Do you think...?" he began to say.

"Shh, not here. We'll speak later." Mycroft turned back to Jamie. "I'll see you this weekend, **I promise**."

The child nodded and hugged his father before being reluctantly turned back over to Sherlock. "Come along Jamie. Your father has bad guys to catch."

"Really?" Jamie looked between the two of them. "This is about bad guys? It's bad guy stuff?"

"Top Secret Bad Guy... .. stuff." Sherlock replied, trying to sound as completely serious as possible.

Jamie's downtrodden expression turned into one of delight. Bad guy stuff was always exciting. Everyone was always telling him the coolest stories and then telling him he couldn't tell Mum. It was also usually really important, with governments and everything. The slight of his father not being able to spend a few hours with him was greatly lessened and he ran back to give him another hug.

"Be careful!"

"I will." Mycroft said and then gave Sherlock a very grateful look. Now he _owed_ him, on top of everything else. As soon as this could be resolved, he meant the minute it was, he was going to find some very old whiskey, crawl inside the bottle and not come out until he was forced to.

As soon as Sherlock and Jamie were out of the sight, the phone came out again and he hit speed dial. "Yes. I'm coming in. I just want... …" he paused, listened, "I just want to know if it's **him**."


	22. Chapter 22

**DEAREST – A Fanfiction by Hrlyqin **

**part two – chapter three (chapter 22) **

After Sherlock and Jamie had gone, John kept himself busy until it was time for Molly to get home and then set out to perform their 'Molly gets home from work after John' routine which consisted of him sitting on the couch and Molly collapsing next to him and putting her feet up on his lap, where he would rub her feet and play with her toes while they talked out their day. He treasured times like these, what he called Life's Tiny Moments.

"I didn't expect you to be home." she said as she stretched out.

"I had Sherlock take Jamie over. I couldn't handle Mycroft today.

"Is he...I mean, why not?"

"I've just been thinking about things." He slid her shoe off and tickled the bottom of her foot, a gambit to distract her.

"What things?" Molly persisted.

"Just – you're going to make me go through all of this? It's really nothing, I swear."

"But it's bothering you and I love you. Fess up."

"I just know what it's like to deal with a loved one whose an alcoholic. I've put up with it most of my life and I can't stomach the fact that Jamie is going to go through the same thing."

"He doesn't drink around Jamie."

"Doesn't mean it doesn't affect him and by the way, when did we switch places? Normally you're the one that wants to shovel Mycroft in the back of the skull and I'm the one whose calm."

"Mycroft loves Jamie. That's a lot. I think you might take it for granted that a parent loves their kid but I don't. My problems with him don't have anything to do with Jamie. He's a good father. Too bad he's kind of a miserable human being."

"Very calm of you, Molly my love."

"We both know he hasn't been right for years, not since, you know, that night. It's disappointing. I know it's bad to be disappointed in someone that's … . .. " she trailed off before picking up again, "he just promised so much and he didn't live up to any of it and it makes you want to grab him and just, shake him, I guess, or slap him until he comes out of it and starts acting like his old self again."

John was trying to formulate a reply to that (a lot of things ran through his mind) when he heard the taxi pull up out front. Checking his watch, he patted Molly's foot and got up as Sherlock and Jamie let themselves in. John gave Sherlock his best 'what the hell is going on' look.

"Let's go out into the yard." he said. "Hello Molly, borrowing your husband for a minute, and that really isn't hygienic, you should know that."

Jamie was rubbing his cheek frantically with his sleeve where his mother had planted kisses all over his face. She sort of waved him off and the two men went through the house and out the back door where Sherlock was quick to light up a cigarette and plant himself on the porch swing.

"That bad?" John said as an opener.

"Something's happened. We didn't speak but I know Mycroft's former assistant has been murdered. The police are doing their usual impression of spectacular ignorance and have no suspects but Mycroft fears that Moriarty was behind it."

"Moriarty?"

"That's the likeliest scenario."

John sat down next to Sherlock. "I think you better give me one of the those."

Wearing his curious face, Sherlock complied and pulled out a fresh cigarette, lighting it from the end of his own and then passing it over. John promptly took a deep drag from it and then started coughing and sputtering. "Haven't smoked since the war."

Sherlock had never seen John smoke at all (although he was aware that he had at one time in his life) and extracted from it that John's stress level was significant and he also wanted to feel more masculine at the moment by partaking in an old army habit. He felt the situation to come would warrant bravery and feared that blood would be shed before it was over. As it happened sometimes, John was entirely right in thinking this.

"Why come back now?" he asked.

"I'm not sure of that yet. We may never be sure. Remember that Moriarty does not think in a way that you would understand and therefore his motives may remain a mystery. It could be a complicated scheme years in the making, it could also be that he's just bored. But I think that you need to take precautions, as we discussed."

John ran through the routine in his head, one that he had insisted they go over many times. There was a savings account set aside with money that would be used to buy 3 sets of plane tickets on 3 separate flights for Molly and Jamie. They would take one but John wasn't to know which one. After that they would repeat the process at the nearest train station and not try to contact John, Sherlock or Mycroft until one of them contacted them first. There was a similar plan for Mrs. Hudson involving her taking an unplanned trip to see her son in Australia. Sherlock would speak to Greg Lestrade as soon as he left here, making sure their conversation was private, so the police would be at least aware of the threat. Sucking more smoke into his lungs, John went over it all a second time (bank account number, flight schedule, what they would need to pack) and then a third time, using the repetition to keep his bran from screaming that his wife and his son would be running for their lives.

"You're worrying." Sherlock said to him, causing all of those thoughts to be allowed to rush in.

"Brilliant deduction."

"It's a good plan John. I thought of it. Your family will be safe. There is even the chance that this is not Moriarty."

"Do you think that it isn't?"

"Not in the least, but there's still a chance."

"He already beat us once Sherlock. I nearly - we both nearly died, and that was when it was just you and me versus him. Now he could do something to Molly or Jamie just to get at me and I'm telling you, if he touches them, if he takes them...then I'll do whatever he asks me to in order to get them back."

"That's what really frightens you." Sherlock realized. "Not that they will be hurt but that they could be used to turn you into his puppet."

"I'd be no good to you."

"Don't be foolish. You're always good to me. I'll see you at Baker Street. If you're not there by noon tomorrow, I'll know something has gone wrong." Sherlock rose, wrapping his coat around him in the evening chill and sucked the last of his cigarette before going back through the house to the street. He did not say goodbye, nor did he allow John time to process his parting words or ruin them with some sort of mundane sentiment in return.

John stayed on the porch, finishing his cigarette as well and then desperately wishing he had another one, even though it had made him nauseous. When he finally couldn't put it off any longer, he went back inside and found Molly still on the couch, all curled up with Jamie next to her, flipping through one of his books and pointing out his favorite pictures to her.

"That's a pterodactyl." he said with both rote memorization and extreme excitement.

"Look at you, my smart thing. You're Mummy's dearest little boy, aren't you?" She gave him a squeeze and John forced himself to stand inactive for a moment just to watch them. If a few minutes, this would all be changed and he didn't know when he would see them snuggled up together, happy and safe, again.

Soon, he prayed.

_Please don't let it be him._ John thought. _Let this all be a big mix up and us all overreacting. Please. _

"Jamie," he said out loud, "go upstairs and get your bag together. Just like we practiced, okay?"

"Sure Dad." he leapt up from the couch and scrambled up the stairs. Molly sat up, her features drawing in and thinning until her face was pinched with worry.

"What's happening?" she asked.

"The emergency Mycroft had. Sherlock things it might be Moriarty. It's probably not, but you and Jamie need to get somewhere safe, just in case."

"But... B-but I'm not just going to leave you."

"We've been through this before."

"I know but that was when we were doing it like the fire drills in school. No one ever... nobody ever thinks the school is really going to catch fire, you just do it. Jamie and I can't just take off, not by ourselves."

"It's the safest way. He won't come after you if he can't find you easily. Not once he's here. It makes sense."

John turned away from her, willing the conversation to end and her to go upstairs like Jamie had. She needed to pack too. He went over to the bookcase where they had a little wall safe hidden and punched in the code, getting out the bank book and their travel documents.

"John, I need to tell you something." he heard Molly say behind him.

"Molly please, there isn't a lot of time right now."

"No, I need to tell you something."

He shut the safe, set the papers down to free his hands and went over to her, rubbing her arms up and down and then hugging her tightly. Here he was worrying about his own nervousness when he was, well, made of tougher stuff than Molly. He was probably scaring her to death. "It will be alright, I promise. I know you're worried, but we have to stick to the plan."

"No." she insisted again. "You can't send us away without protection. Jim will come after Jamie."

"I won't give him the chance." He kissed her hair, her cheek, quiet and reassuring kisses.

"John, I love you so much."

"I love you too."

"Do you?"

"Yes."

"But do you-d'you really?"

"Always and forever." he assured her.

She squeezed him back, pressing her head into his neck where he was warm and still smelled a little like aloe, and closed her eyes tightly then let it all go. "Mycroft isn't Jamie's father."

He pulled her back, not angry but confused. Maybe he heard something wrong or she was... he didn't know but he looked her in the face and asked "What?"

"Mycroft isn't Jamie's father. He said he would st-step in for me, take care of me, make sure the baby and I didn't need to worry, but he's not Jamie's father. We never slept together. I was confused and I didn't know what to do and I didn't even really know you. I was scared."

"I don't get what you're telling me."

"Jim's his dad. Moriarty. We weren't to-together for very long but I got pregnant."

Now when he pushed her back it was in anger. But he still clung to this tiny thread that he didn't understand what she was saying. She looked lost, terrified, and she tried to press herself against him again but he didn't let her.

"Jim Moriarty is Jamie's father." he repeated.

"John, I'm sorry." her words came quickly, picking up speed as she said more and more. "I wanted to tell you but Mycroft said I couldn't burden you like that and then it was too late and I didn't kn-know how to and then I just thought that it didn't matter, because you were his Dad so why was it import-tant where he came from? You love him. You love me."

"You lied to me." His thoughts were simple right now. Everything seemed ridiculously clear.

"I didn't want to." she said desperately.

"But you did."

"No, it wasn't like that." She put her hands on his shoulders, tried to slide her arms around his neck and he shoved her back from him, this time very angry and hard enough to make her stumble, calves hitting the coffee table.

"Don't touch me." he told her quietly.

"No, John, listen..." she reached out her hand and he slapped it away.

"Jamie!" he yelled, holding his eyes on hers.

"Yeah Dad?" came a voice from upstairs, followed by tiny footsteps on the steps.

"Got your stuff?"

"Yeah."

"Grab my keys from by the door there and go out to the car." His voice was calm and sounded so normal but his face was reddened and his eyes were burning holes into his wife."I'll meet you out there in two minutes."

He waited, looking at Molly, searching her face for some kind of explanation while they both listened to Jamie coming the rest of the way down, getting John's keys and going out the door. John's voice had been so much like he always sounded that Molly slipped back into her normal tone, saying "We shouldn't leave him out there by himself."

"Don't!" The anger came back, held at bay for just long enough to make sure Jamie didn't have to see or hear it. "Don't you dare start telling me how to be a parent right now, Molly."

"I'm his mother."

"You're a liar. Every day you've been lying to me. Did you think this was some kind of game? Let's see if we can fool John? I'm glad it was a fun little experiment for you but this was MY LIFE!"

"No, I didn't, I mean...I'm sorry."

"Stop." he held up his hand, his tone flat and final. "Stop apologizing."

"But I'm sor-"

"I DON'T CARE IF YOU'RE SORRY!" he roared at her. "I. Don't. Give. A. Fuck! I can't believe... I thought you were different. You act like you're so much better than everyone because you've got a heart. But you..." he sucked in a breath. There were so many things that he wanted to say, so many words he wanted to hurl at her like weapons. Six years. Six years of his life. His entire life, his future, with what he thought was his family. It was all a lie. "I'm going. Jamie and I are leaving. Don't call me. Don't try to follow me. Get yourself out of the city." He picked up the bank book from the safe and threw it at her, letting it slap her in the chest and then hit the floor at her feet. "I really don't care what happens to you after that."

"John..." she had been standing but she made her way down to the floor, shakily, her legs not able to hold her anymore. What could she say? "I love you." she finished.

"I know that. I just don't care. Don't call me." he said again.

He closed his ears to the sound of her started to cry, keening little shrieks growing into heart-wrenching sobs and his face became clear, a mask of banality showing so that when he left the house and got in the car, Jamie still had no idea what had just transpired. John didn't want him to have the memory of his parents screaming at each other over him.

His parents...

He took deep breaths and then pulled into traffic, not admitting to himself where he was going. In his conscious mind, he struggled with where he could take Jamie now. If he went to Harry's, he'd have to tell her everything. He couldn't make his mouth form the words right now, not to Harry, who would judge him, savoring a rare occasion where she could be superior to his grand fuck-up. He figured he would let her take Jamie and fill in Molly's role, but tomorrow, not today. He couldn't bear sitting in the car for hours today with his thoughts, his mind playing over anniversaries and birthday parties and everything other memory that was shit right now. He just needed a few hours to get his head on straight and then they could get back to the plan. Just a few hours to think.

Moving mechanically, his mind not even somewhat on the road, he found his body making familiar turns onto familiar streets. He didn't think about his destination until they arrived. Gathering Jamie up, he passed the first unlocked front door and carried the boy up the stairs, leaving the luggage in the car for now. He banged on the door and almost wished no one was home, so he wouldn't need to explain. But he had used up his quotient of prayers for the day and Sherlock was quick to undo the locks and let them inside.

Setting Jamie down, John looked at his best friend, who he knew deep down in his heart must have also been in on the deception and told him, "I didn't know where else to go."


	23. Chapter 23

**DEAREST **

**A fanfiction by Hrlyqin based on properties owned by their creators**

**part two – chapter four (chapter 23) **

After Jamie was fed, bathed and bedded down in John's old room, the two former flat mates sat in the living room in 'their' chairs, regarding each other. John had been ready to open up as soon as he heard the child's snoring, but Sherlock had asked that he give him a few minutes of quiet first. Now, the dark haired detective with his fingers steepled and his eyes narrowed, nodded almost imperceptibly and said, "Alright, I'm ready."

"Did you know?" was the first thing out of John's mouth.

"Of course I knew. Try not to ask foolish questions."

John opened his lips again, closed them, made a low growling noise, and then replied. "How could you not tell me?"

"It wasn't my story to tell, John."

"But you let me. … you could have said _something_, anything, maybe a **hint** even."

"And what would that have done?"

"I would have known." Wasn't that obvious?

"And how would your knowledge have changed anything at all?"

"I just would have known! I'm sorry, but I think that I had a right to. I've raised that kid for years and now I find out that everything I thought was true is just..." he threw his hands up into the air, unable to even articulate it, "I thought Mycroft was his father. Everything I thought about Molly, and Mycroft, their history, Mycroft's involvement, everything, it's all different now, and I don't even know what to think. No one ever thought to clue me in, either. Not even you. Have all of you just been laughing at me behind my back? Because that's what it feels like." He stopped and took a deep breath, closing his lips and making the low growl again. When he started speaking once more, his voice was marginally calmer. "The way she said it, she knew she was wrong not to tell me, she was confessing, we've heard enough criminals do that. She knew it was wrong not to tell me but she did it anyway. If she had just told me then I could have decided if it mattered. I could have said, alright.But she didn't, didn't see the need. Good old John, he'll go along with things, he never asks too many questions. He's not the smart one."

"Are you angry with me?" Sherlock asked, the way one might ask if someone liked a book they'd read.

"Not as much as I damn well should be."

"How about Mycroft?"

"I'll bloody kill him."

"Interesting. All of this rage towards Molly and my brother, but much less towards me. I knew, as you pointed out, and you must have realized that I knew. So why come here?"

"I just needed a friend."

"You've got lots of friends."

"What do you want me to say?" he sat back. "This is my place to come, I always come here when Molly and I get into a row."

"That's not it." Sherlock objected.

"Well it's the best you're going to get because it's all I've got right now."

"Would you like to know what I think?" His nostrils flared just slightly at the prospect of getting to show off. He had been practicing with emotions as they related to human behaviour. The nannies in the park where we went with Jamie were an excellent source for study. John was a perfect practice case because Sherlock knew him better than almost anyone except Mycroft (and he was patently against trying to ever put himself in Mycroft's shoes).

"Sure. Why not?" John agreed with a limp shrug.

"That's it exactly, you'd like to know what I think. You knew I must have known as well which saves you the trouble of having to repeat it all to someone else, that's one reason, but more importantly, you want to know what I think of it all. Anyone else you went to would have coddled you and taken your side and said Molly was a monster and how could she do that to you? 'That crazy bitch' and so on. But you knew you could trust me to tell you the truth as I see it without worry for sparing your feelings. You believe this will help you gain perspective because you still haven't decided what you are going to do."

"Well that's...a good answer."

"Naturally." He shook his head slightly at wonder that John would expect any other kind of answer from him to a problem. Still, he was right so far and that was something to be pleased with.

"So are you going to tell me?"

"Whenever you're ready."

"Wait." He now asked for a minute to compose himself, steeling his nerves for the punch that was sure to come. "Okay, hit me with it."

Sherlock sucked in a breath and began.

"Mycroft first, let's get him out of the way. The last thing you said, about you being the compliant one that doesn't question orders, that's your anger towards him because you think he was the one making that call. Given your history with him and your knowledge of him, a perfectly sound assessment and also a true one. Mycroft would have weighed the situation and made the best decision for everyone, whether they knew about it or not. But he doesn't do it to manipulate...well, he doesn't _always_ do it to manipulate. He just thinks he always knows best so why bother consulting anyone? Assuming we're on the right track so far, and let's, I can tell you from my history with him and my knowledge of him that he did not force your hand because he thinks you are lazy, slow witted or a follower, he did it because he felt that you were the best possible person to raise Jamie. It's his version of a compliment if you look at it that way.

Now Molly, you paint Molly as a machiavellian harlot and please," he laughed, "this is Molly we're talking about. She was a frightened woman alone in the world with no idea what to do. Even on her best day, her self esteem is so minimal that she constantly fears her ever decision will lead to disaster. So, pregnant, scared, not able to tell anyone, enter a corpulent billionaire with the answer to all her problems, of course she did whatever he told her to. Just taking the decision out of her hands was an answer to her prayers. Then, once the decision was made, she had to keep going with it. I am sure she felt like she could not tell you and then once she hadn't, she felt that she would lose you if she confessed to the lies she had already told. She did not act out of malicious intent, that much is clear.

But let's get down to what's important – you. You're outraged. Magnificently virile in your moral indignation. Snap out of it. Yes it was horrible what they did, there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth, but there was never a meeting where everyone at a table voted to have one over on you. No scheme. You sitting on that couch is the result of people taking a terrible situation and trying to make the best choice possible. Maybe they were not the right choices, maybe they were not the ones you would have made but that is a harsh standard to hold anyone else to. My brave, smart, impossibly **good **doctor, you're an exception. How can you set the bar so high and then expect everyone else to live up to it? You'll always be disappointed if you do."

John was quiet when he finished but his eyes were wide. Sherlock didn't often turn his perceptive sense on his best friend and it was overwhelming. He didn't agree with most of what he said, but he felt like he had been slapped in the face with it never the less. After giving him time to digest, Sherlock asked him "Do you love Jamie?"

"Yes."

"Do you love Molly?"

"I …...do. I just don't know if I like her much right now."

"You'll either get over this, or you won't. There's always Baker Street if you don't. But when you're done sulking, we do have a madman bearing down on us to think about."

"Alright." He took all of his anger, his ire, his embarrassment and he filed it away. He buried it deep down for now so he could function, and when this was all over, if they were all still alive, he could figure it out then. Sherlock was right, there were more pressing matters in front of them. "Molly's left by now, or she should of. I'll take Jamie away in the morning, grab Harry and we'll go. A couple with a child doesn't attract as much attention as a single Dad anyway."

"No. Sorry. I need you here. Harry and Jamie will be fine by themselves, as long as they follow instruction."

"But that's his **son**. We can't just let him go with no one but Harry. He's bound to come after them."

"Correct except for one thing – Moriarty has no knowledge of Jamie's true paternity. Mycroft covered it well, he told only those that needed to know and none of the intelligence gathered over the years give any indication that he's aware. The danger is that Moriarty will take Jamie because he thinks he's _Mycroft's_ son but if Jamie and Harry leave quickly enough he won't have time to go after them. The best thing we can do is be waiting for Moriarty here and eliminate him before he has any chance to think about Jamie."

"That's the plan then?"

"That's the plan."


	24. Chapter 24

**DEAREST**

**part two chapter five **

**(chapter 24)**

Mycroft Holmes studied his reflection in the mirror. What he saw, he barely recognized.

A gray hair here, another one there, nothing anyone else would notice but he did. When did he get so old?

His eyes, rimmed in red. He hadn't slept for more than two or three hours at a time in years. Even when he was able to drift off after getting to the bottom of a bottle, he always woke, cursing the darkness that chased him and it's relentlessness. It wasn't nightmares, he would never admit to that, but he did have so many cares for one man.

Long ago, in simpler times, before 'the war', he had cornered John Watson, trying to feel him out. He was fearful of him, fearful for him, of anyone who would enter Sherlock's vortex. The first time they met, he had noted his hands. How they should have shaken and how they didn't. Lifting his own hand now to adjust his tie, he saw a tremor there. Concentrating on only the skin, muscle and bone of that hand for a moment, he forced it to stop.

His finest performance was coming soon, and frankly he did not know if he was up to it anymore. A long road and many mistakes to get here and now Moriarty was coming. He was never lulled into thinking that the peace between them would last, but he had hoped he would be ready when time ran out. But he found himself frightfully unprepared, a toothless lion, an old bureaucrat gone to seed. As a younger man, he imagined he would be able to handle this all on his own, but he knew looking at his mirrored image that he would need Sherlock's help, Sherlock's rapier mind and his magnificent rage. But if Sherlock knew the truth, he would never be willing to help. There was a chance that he would just kill him, or himself, if he realized that Mycroft had let Moriarty go for his own selfish reasons and then buried his head in the sand

(or the bottle)

while he wreaked havoc on the world. It was not so much the death of all those innocent people (no one was truly innocent) that would bother Sherlock, nor Moriarty's undeserved 'free pass'. What would drive Sherlock insane was the idea that he had been denied his quarry, that Mycroft had played keep-away with his prize and even lied to him to make sure he was kept at bay. He would never understand that he had done it for love.

So when Sherlock arrived (Mycroft checked his watch), his speech would need to be smooth, his information certain, his gaze steady. It would be an elaborate dance of misdirection and it would need to be flawless. Or everything would be lost.

He hated to admit the thrill that was running through him while he prepared. It had been so long since he had felt this way. Most days, he made it through. He drank, he would not deny, but only until he was numb and dulled to the pounding in his heart. He found the company of some woman or another when he was lonely. He only really woke up to see Jamie and that was another kind of feeling entirely, something bright and warm like the glow of a soft fire. This was volcanic. The times he had felt like this... Sebastian... the Sterling affair... .. all such a terribly long time ago. Although he deserved no reward for his actions, maybe he could keep this feeling with him, cling to it the next time things went black.

Maybe if God was kind.

Perfectly on time, Sherlock arrived. Lindley had already been sent away, so Mycroft turned from his mirror towards the sound of angry thumping. Giving himself a last look-over, he passed by the open bottle of whiskey without a second glance as he went to get the door.

"What do we know?" Sherlock asked him as soon as they were face to face. He rushed inside, going around Mycroft like a tornado. 的s it Moriarty? Has someone confirmed it? If it was, why go after Callie? Surely to send a message. A warning? Maybe. But he had to realize that we would know it was him. Maybe he doesn't care, that's all I can come up with. Still, why be so careful for so long as to entirely avoid detection and then come back with such a showy gesture? Ahhh, that must be it. A showy gesture is what he does, like a calling card. This is him flexing his legs a bit before the big dance. Now he's coming to dance with us. Do you know where he is now? Is he coming directly to London or will he try to cut a path of destruction? Have you covered anyone else he might come after? Old girlfriend, old boyfriend you've got stashed away somewhere? No don't say anything, I know it was just a 'college thing', not important right now. Molly's already gone, John has to take Jamie, oh and incidentally Molly decided that _now _would be the perfect time to let the issue of paternity slip so no one is handling that very well...I am getting so much better at understanding them but I just can't fathom what is so important about whose penis has been in your wife... ..I brought a gun, I hope you don't mind. I'm sure you have plenty of your own but I figured you would be touchy about me playing with your toys."

"Sherlock." he said simply, " Please come in.

Mycroft managed to get the door shut and his brother steered to the kitchen and seated on a stool by the stove without too many more torrents of speech. Here he had been so concerned with distracting Sherlock, not realizing how much of a distraction this would be all on it's own. He went into the fridge and extracted a pastry for himself, pushing one at his guest as well.

Sherlock predictably pushed it away and Mycroft scolded him. "Even your brain cannot survive hypoglycemia. Eat while you can."

"First tell me what you know."

"I'll tell you while you eat."

With some showiness of his own, Sherlock picked up the pastry, took an overly elaborate and slow bite of it, swallowed and then opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue to show that it had actually gone down. Childish. Even at times like this.

"They've confirmed it was Moriarty. The husband was supposed to be working late, some kind of trade meeting, so he most likely expected longer before the body was discovered. He might have intended to return and leave a more deliberate message. Either way, there weren't any movements we could track until yesterday evening when we got chosen the location, the folder Mycroft wanted was at arm's reach and he plucked it off the counter and gave it to Sherlock. Low grade security footage print outs, but the face was unmistakable."

"It really is said quietly."

"Without a doubt. That one is from the airport. We know he took a plane that landed at LAX and connected with a flight to Paris that is due to land in three hours. I already have nine agents there working with security. We can take the helicopter."

"We have to wait for John."

Mycroft looked at him expectantly and after a minute, Sherlock got his phone out from his jacket and sent a text. He waited, read, and then sent another. John's second reply came and Sherlock's brow furrowed deeply.

"He's not coming."

.

.

.

After a night of almost no sleep and checking his phone every few hours to see if Molly had called/texted/emailed (not that he wanted her to, understand), John had drug himself from bed and been showered, fed and reasonably presentable in time to get Jamie up and make sure he was more or less the same before setting out for Harry's place.

Saying goodbye to Sherlock was more awkward than normal. Normally, at least, he had the high ground of rationality to stand on while Sherlock was the one wanting to put rubber chickens in panty hose or the like. But today there had been this mist of embarrassment and worry hanging over everything. He had promised to give him a call as soon as Jamie got settled for further instructions and then just kind of left it there. So much he wanted to say but no words or time or heart left for any of it right now.

The ride to Harry's didn't make it any easier. He called her three times, left her messages, said what he could over the damn phone about what was going on but she couldn't be bothered to call him back. He had called her last night too, mostly as an excuse just to have his phone out but still, he had left messages. They had all kinds of things, codes and such, they had drilled even and now here it was and she couldn't take two seconds... .

_Calm down soldier _he had to tell himself. He looked back at Jamie, who was napping with his chin pressed into his chest, and then took deep breaths until he felt a little more sane. Jamie. He still just couldn't believe it. This was Moriarty's child. Moriarty. Serpent in the Garden, Satan in a Sunday hat. He had spent time replaying things in his head last night, times Jamie had gotten into a dust up with some other boy, lies he had told, little things that were normal for children but did they mean something more now? Maybe it hadn't been anyone's intention to force him but had he been raising a monster? Someone destined only to destroy...

Then his head would turn back around to all the other memories, and there were so many more of this kind Jamie and Sherlock seated next to the Christmas tree inspecting each wrapped present and trying to guess what was inside, Jamie wanting to make Molly breakfast in bed on her birthday and the two of them trying to do pancakes which turned out awful, the time that Toby got sick and wheezy and Jamie had made him a Get Well Soon card and insisted on feeding him bits of tuna by hand. Everything he had been there for and hadn稚 had any reason to question. Did what he knew now make it less real? Could he really get by thinking that this boy was anything other than the good kid he'd raised?

He remembered clearly when Jamie had come to him (not Molly or Mycroft) to ask him about his particular and peculiar family. Jamie had a way of being very specific about who he asked important things, until now he had attributed it to Mycroft's logical DNA, but the fact that Jamie had chosen to ask John instead of any of them had really meant something to him. It had only been last year -

_He had been out in their postage stamp sized backyard, clearing up bits of branch and leaves that had been waiting after last night's big storm. Molly had taken Jamie to see Mycroft and John heard them come home, waved at them in the window and expected for them to curl up with a movie or an art project while he did the man's work outside. So he had been surprised when the door opened up and out came the small dark haired boy changed out of his visiting clothes and into jeans and a green jumper. Jamie didn't offer to help or say anything really so after waiting, John had asked him, "W__hat's up Jammer?"_

"_Why do I have two boy parents and only one girl parent?"_

"_That's a...why do you put it that way, boy parents and girl parents?"_

"_There's this girl at the park,he sat down on the ground just on the edge of John's leafy debris pile, "H__er name is Sasha. She's really nice, for a girl, and she was telling me how she has her Mama Annabelle and her Mama Sharon but she doesn't have a Dad. I was telling her how I have a Dad and I have a Father and she asked me if you were married, so I said you were married to Mum and she told me how her two Mamas were in love so that's why she has two. But you love Mum and I don't think you love Father so I don't see why she has two Mamas who are in love but I have you and Father and Mum. Were you in love with Father?"_

"_Go-oo-ood Lord." He sighed, setting down his rake and rubbing the side of his head for a minute. Should he get Molly? No, better to just tell her later like it was no big deal, she'd only get worked up about him asking. Besides, he was old enough to understand it. "W__ell for starters, no, I can promise you that I was never in love with your Father. Let's knock that one out of the way first off. I love your mother. You see, it's like two three Go. W__hen I met your Mum, she and I were really good friends, this was back when I lived with Uncle Sherlock. She and your father were in love," That part may have been a white lie but the truth of that issue was something Jamie was **not** old enough for yet. "A__nd they made you. But they decided they were better off just being really good mates. So your Mom was by herself for a little bit. Then she and I got to be a little more than just friends, and we got married and I promised I would love her and you forever. So you got me as a Dad too."_

"_So you aren't really my Dad?" a small sneaker kicked at an escaping leaf. _

"_Well not genetically. Do you understand 'genetically'?"_

"_Nuh-uh."_

"_Biologically?" he tried. _

"_Oh I know that one! That means lots of stuff. Like lots and lots and lots of stuff."_

"_Okay, um, are you thirsty? I'm thirsty. Give me a minute here. Alright, it's like this, you've got part of you that's your Mom. You've got her eyes and her laugh, because part of her when into making you. You've also got part of you that's your Father. You're really smart and you ask a lot of questions, but you're good at figuring out the answers on your own to a lot of them, just like your Father because part of him went into making you. There's not a part of me that went into making you because you were already here when I married your mother. But I'm still your real Dad because I'm here making sure you grow up right."_

"O-kay."_ he said slowly, processing. "S__o Uncle Sherlock, he's like my Dad too."_

_"What?"_

"_Well he loves me and he is making sure I know lots of stuff like don't mix acids and bases and ladies never buy heart-shaped jewelry for themselves."_

"_What?" John said again. _

"_He wants me to grow up smart so that makes him my Dad too, because he cares about how I grow up. Did I get it right?"_

"_No. Sherlock does want you to be smart and he does love you but he is not your parent. I think they passed some kind of law about him being a parent. He's your Uncle. That's like a parent but it's not a parent."_

"_I don't get it." he told him in an extremely apologetic manner. _

"_Right, I think we're both a little out of our depth. Can you just believe me when I say that you've got your Mother and Father and then you've also got me as your Dad because that's just how our family works best?"_

_Negotiation. Father was teaching him about negotiation. "I__f I do, can I have a cookie?"_

_John had started laughing nearly hysterically. "Y__es, cookies for everyone. Let's go inside and see what we've got in the cupboard."_

Stealing another glance back at him, John tried not to look for any of Jim Moriarty in him. That was just genetics, just biology. But it was eerie. His hair, which he had always thought took after Sherlock, it was so dark whereas Molly's was lighter. It was Moriarty's hair. God, no, he couldn't go down this road today. Whoever his father was, it wasn't Jamie's fault. He was still the little boy he'd raised. He hated having to remind himself of that.

When he pulled up at Harry's house, he tried calling her again so hopefully he wouldn't have to catch her in her starkers or maybe 'with a friend', but he still got no response so he just resigned himself to going inside. The spare key was inside the little notch just above the door where it always was and when John opened things up, the house was dark.

"Harry?" he called out.

Jamie and he went in, walking slowly. After about six steps, John considered turning back. What if they weren't the first ones here? If your quarry goes to ground, leave your quarry no ground to go to, that was how the saying went. But nothing looked disturbed or out of place, there was no sign of a struggle, so they continued forward but John edged Jamie over and back so the boy was behind him and where Jamie was trying to clutch his hand, he determinedly kept it free just in case.

He kept calling out until they got to the bedroom. John made Jamie stand at the end of the hall and went in alone. Fearing the worst, he wanted to close his eyes and had to fight to keep them open. But what he say wasn't splatters of blood everywhere or a bloated corpse. No. His sister was sprawled out across the mattress, her blankets and sheets all pushed onto the floor. She was very much alive and breathing, you could tell by the smell.

"Harry." he said sternly. He grabbed her foot and shook it. "Harriet. Wake UP!"

"Wha?" she lifted her head, her bright red (dyed) hair hanging over her eyes.

"WAKE UP! You're supposed to be leaving in..he checked his watch, "20 minutes. Didn't you get my messages?vCome on, let's get you in the shower."

"Noooo." she turned over, "I can't today. I'm sick."

"You're hung over." he disagreed.

"I'm..." she opened her mouth to object and vomited all over the bed, coughing it out.

"Yep. Date with Captain Morgan last night?"

"No, it's the flu."

"Flu my shiny red cock. Get up."

But Harry would not be moved. She rolled over, away from the sick-up, and John was pretty sure she went back to sleep. Covering his nose, he got a towel from the bathroom and mopped up the mess so at least she wouldn't be laying in it. Of all the days. The one time that he actually really needed her for something, not emotional support or decent living arrangements but something important and she was too busy all but wallowing in her own vomit.

"Just this once would have been muttered as he got her sitting up, groaning all the way, and put her arm over his shoulder and then his hands around his waist so he could get her into the bathroom. 的t's not like I've ever asked you for much and really Harry it's not like you've ever given me much but this. I really, really needed this today. Good thing Jamie's not in here with me. I'd like to see you have to live with yourself if he saw you like this..."

He made more angry utterances as he got her into the bathroom that was attached on to her bedroom and sitting down in the tub. She was awake but she didn't really know what was going on. John upgraded her from merely hung over to still drunk off her ass. But he couldn't really be surprised. No, this was a bad plan, even for the back-up to a back-up plan.

"Dad?" he heard Jamie calling as he turned on the water. "Dad what's going on? Can I come in?"

"No! Don't come in. I'm just helping Harry out. Her uh, her alarm clock didn't go off." His sister was shaking her head back and forth and sputtering as the water hit her. Oops it was cold. That must be really uncomfortable for her. He hadn't done that on purpose at all.

After 5 minutes of the shower treatment, he got her out and stripped her of her dripping night things. She didn't even seem to be embarrassed by it and was telling him about a car or a train or something, he wasn't really listening. His mind was busy making plans, rearranging them, trying to figure out something that would work because they had to get out of here now.

He had to get Jamie somewhere safe.

When he brought her back out to the bedroom, she took the first opportunity to flop back into bed and put her arm across her face, blocking the light from her eyes. "You just go ahead Johnny, I don't want to see Mom anyway right now."

"What? Mum's been dead since 1998."

"So it's not like she's expecting me." Harriet said and then began giggling at her own joke.

No, this wasn't going to work at all.

His phone started buzzing in his pocket and he pulled it out to check. Sherlock wanted to know where the high hell he was. He texted back quickly.

_Harry drunk. Cant look after herself even. Might need a new plan. _

_JW_

_You're not asking a great mental task of her. It will be fine. Hurry up. I need you here. _

_SH _

John looked at his sister again. He knew he didn't really have a choice. He'd made a mess of things with Molly and there was no telling where she was anyway. Mrs. Hudson was already gone. He didn't trust anyone else, he couldn't ask anyone else anyway. He didn't have a lot of those sort of friends. There wasn't really any way.

_I need to stay with him Sherlock. I'm sorry. Be careful. _

_JW _

**A/Ns: Since I haven't done it the last few chapters, THANK YOU to everyone who has read, reviewed and sent messages. I can't believe Dearest has gotten over 100 comments. I'm glad so many are with me so far on. Also thanks to Roxanne-Michal for her patience and dedication in helping me make sure everything is just right. She is awesome if only because she never gets tired of me asking 'Is Sherlock too bitchy in this chapter?'. Keep reading! -hrlyqin**


	25. Chapter 25

**DEAREST by Hrlyqin **

**part two – chapter six **

**(chapter 25) **

**"****Hi, it's Molly! Sorry I can't talk right now but if you leave me a message I'll get back to you in two shakes. Beep!"**

"Hey Molly it's me. I just wanted you to know that everyone is okay. I know worrying is your favorite hobby. Um, yeah, so that's kind of a lie. I mean, I wanted you to know we're okay but also I wanted to listen to your voice on the phone. It's not that I'm not still mad because I am, and I don't know if I forgive you yet or not. But I really miss you and I wish you were here with me right now. I'll talk to you when I can. Be careful."

It had been two days since John had left Harry's and gone on the run. All of his planning had been for Molly going with Jamie so he had done a lot of thinking on his feet. There was an old army pal, a surgeon named Paul who had been part of the poker games with John and now owned a little inn with his wife is Dublin. But it wasn't so simple as going straight there, that was too risky. So he and Jamie had gone to Belgium, spent a few hours in the airport and then flown over to Luxembourg where they would bed down tonight and then leave for Limerick in the morning before finally planting their feet down in Dublin. Ludicrous, exhausting, annoying when you spoke almost no German and your French was only passable, but difficult to track and impossible to anticipate. John had started hoping that by the time they actually got to Dublin, Sherlock would be calling him and giving him the all-clear.

While John had felt it was safe to call Molly, as their neighbors could attest to their current estrangement, Sherlock's only communications to him had been obscure text messages every few hours. The content of the messages were mostly nonsensical (one read 'The cows are not what they seem -SH') but it was Sherlock's way of saying that he was okay but it wasn't safe yet. So long as John got the text messages, he knew he couldn't go home but he could also keep his impulse to race to his friend's aid in check. If the messages stopped coming and he didn't get a call... well, it didn't do him any good to think about that right now. The only one that had been remotely coherent said 'Paris was a bust. M still in the wind'.

He hated leaving Sherlock to deal with Moriarty by himself. Even if they hadn't spoken, he knew that the disappointment would be evident in his former flatmate. He was in the hour of his greatest need and John had to skip town and leave him with no one but Mycroft to help. But he hadn't known what else to do. Harry hadn't even been able to stay awake, much less care for a child while dashing across time zones. He would have given anything to be with Sherlock, in the fray, instead of here with his thoughts and a boy who kept asking questions.

Jamie wanted to know where Mum was and if she was coming to join them.

Jamie wanted to know why John was calling him 'Daniel' since that wasn't his name.

Jamie wanted to know why Harriet didn't come out and say hello to him when they were there.

Jamie wanted to know why they couldn't take Sherlock on their vacation with them.

Jamie wanted to know why John was so worried because he could tell he was worried.

Jamie wanted to know why John wouldn't let him out of his sight, even making him pee and shower with the door open.

Jamie had wanted to know if John had a bad dream when he had awoken a few hours ago and Jamie told him he had been screaming. John said it was a bad dream about the war, and that was true, just not the war Jamie thought he meant. It had been years since he had dreamt of the battlefield, of the wounded calling for help and begging to be saved, the bombs exploding and the rat-tat-tat of gun fire ringing in his ears as he put bodies back together. Tonight he had gone back to the solid fear that was forever linked in his mind to the smell of chlorine.

"_Be a good hostage and follow instructions. Repeat exactly what I tell you. Do exactly as I tell you. Now isn't the time to be a hero, Dr. Watson, and we both know you're not up to it."_

_He reached around him to make a slight adjustment, like a tailor would, on the Semtex vest John was wrapped in before putting the heavy coat over him. There were two men with guns in the room and doubtlessly others in the building. John had looked at the floor, green tile and white grout, gray with age in places. He was in the locker room at the public swimming pool being trussed out for slaughter. He had known Sherlock would come and had to live with the fact that he was bait._

"_There will be guns on you, and on him. One false move and BAM! Do not pass go, do not collect 2oo quid. Behave yourself and this will all be over soon. Won't that be nice?"_

_He laughed quietly and the smell of him, a dry and musty smell like old leaves, fought with the smell of pool water and towels filling John's nose. A wave of dizzy nausea came and went as he was pushed gently out of the door towards the pool. Moriarty had said it was showtime._

"Showtime." John had said as his eyes opened.

But this was not that time and this was not that place. He was in a cheap hotel room with bad wallpaper. Jamie was a warm ball curled up next to him in the bed. John had thought that the boy had been deep asleep until he sat up and Jamie said, "You're okay Dad? You were shouting."

"Fine. Going to get some water."

"Did you have a bad dream?"

"Yeah." John admitted, saying it in an offhand way that he hoped would make it no big deal.

"Was it about when you were in the war?"

"Yeah." he repeated. "Need anything to drink?"

Jamie said no and John had gone into the bathroom and gotten a drink from the tap. He left the door open and the light on when he went back into the bedroom, seating himself in the chair by the window when he found he couldn't face sleep again right now. He grabbed his phone and checked for messages, then reread all his old messages again and then when Jamie was soundly sleeping again, he had risked calling Molly. In what John could only think of as 'before', when he had the occasional nighttime scare, Molly would baby him and rub his back and his hair and tell him boring, inane things about the day until he could sleep again. He missed that, he missed her near and warm.

He was finally able to sleep again and when he woke, there was daylight streaming in the window. Jamie was already up and he could hear him in the shower. John checked his phone again as he got up (two next text messages, nothing from Molly), affording himself a stretch and a yawn while he went over to the bathroom.

"Hey Jammer," he knocked lightly, "I said keep the door open."

John turned the knob and pushed the bathroom door open. The room was a steamy, humid swamp and sweat beaded up on his skin. The heat and dampness dulled his senses just enough so that he couldn't react when instead of a small boy, he found a grown man with a glock hiding in the loo. The gun came down on John's face and there was blinding pain as the bones in his nose snapped and something exploded in his temple. He fought the rush of sensation into his body but it overcame him and he blinked dizzily before passing out.

He didn't know how much time had passed but he suspected only a few minutes. The air was chilled a little but the warmth of the water still hung in it. John hoisted himself up onto his knees, looking at the puddle of blood where his face had been. The man with the gun was still there, standing by the bed and looking at someone else in the room. John pushed himself forward just enough to see.

It was him.

It was the man himself.

Moriarty stood in full living color by the door of the hotel room. John couldn't make out if he was stealing luggage or curtains for a second and then he realized what was happening. Jamie was bundled up in his arms, eyes closed (drugged?) but chest still rising and falling. Jamie.

"No." John said as he surged forward. The report of the gun firing in the room was deafening and he was driven back by the hot white heat as a bullet sliced into his leg and struck the kneecap. He landed on his back and fingers slid along the floor, trying to find purchase as he pushed through the pain and got up again, half limping and half dragging himself once more towards the man blocking his way.

"Make sure he doesn't follow, but leave him alive." John heard Moriarty say.

The man with the gun obliged and fired again, the new bullet slamming into the other leg and embedding itself into the thick meat of his thigh. When John passed out again, he did not wake until they were gone.

When his eyes next opened, he could tell the passage of time by the much larger pool of blood surrounding him on the floor. He could still feel his arms and legs but they were cold. Trying to sit up, he found he was once again not alone as a man in a hotel uniform put a supportive hand on his back and while another pressed a cool cloth to his face.

"My son, they took my son." John said urgently, tossing the cloth on the floor.

"Ruhig bleiben. Es gibt einen arzt auf dem weg." said the one helping him sit up.

"No, my son. I've got to go after them."

The closer man looked helplessly at the other one who shrugged and asked, "Sprechen sie deutsch?"

"No, no Deutsch. English?" Where was the clerk from last night, he had spoken English.

They shook their heads and spoke to him with more words he couldn't understand as they pushed him gently back down to the floor and resumed mopping his brow. One took his hand and patted it, trying to be reassuring.

"My son..." John said weakly as he struggled to stay awake, remain conscious. Trying to sit up had given him a good assessment of his body. The stain on the floor was spread three feet around him and his night pants were a wet soaked red except where they had torn curtains and tried to stop the worst of the bleeding. John wasn't going to be able to chase Moriarty, even if he knew where he went and John didn't have the slightest clue. He had come like a thief in the night and now Jamie was gone.

"He took my son."


	26. Chapter 26

**DEAREST by Hrlyqin **

**part two – chapter seven**

**(chapter 26) **

**"****Hi, it's Molly! Sorry I can't talk right now but if you leave me a message I'll get back to you in two shakes. Beep!"**

"Hey Molly it's me. I just wanted you to know that everyone is okay. I know worrying is your favorite hobby. Um, yeah, so that's kind of a lie. I mean, I wanted you to know we're okay but also I wanted to listen to your voice on the phone. It's not that I'm not still mad because I am, and I don't know if I forgive you yet or not. But I really miss you and I wish you were here with me right now. I'll talk to you when I can. Be careful."

Molly listened to the message through one more time and then with a guilty glance over her shoulder, she pressed the call button, only to have her phone snatched out of her fingers. Her eyes turned upward to the furious face of Sherlock Holmes.

"No." he told her firmly.

"But he called and I just wanted to, I mean, really quickly just say hi and I need to tell him again that I'm sorry. It would have only been a minute."

"Don't care."

"But..."

"Don't. Care." he repeated, then made a low growling noise of frustration. Was it to impossible to understand that the last thing they needed was John rushing home for a family reunion so they could all spent the holidays dead? "Mycroft! You deal with her, she's not listening to me!"

Mycroft came around the corner from where he had been sipping tea and eavesdropping. "Problem?"

"I've had to confiscate her phone."

That earned him an incredibly scathing look from Mycroft, who had point in case actually taught Sherlock how to look scathingly at someone so he was the undisputed champion. It was no great secret that Sherlock was extremely unhappy with the present state of things. To start with, John had departed for destinations unknown. Then there was the matter of Moriarty boarding a plane in California but somehow not being on it when it landed in Paris (although neither Sherlock nor Mycroft were surprised at this, just upset. To top it off, when they had returned there was a sodden and downcast Molly Watson on Mycroft's doorstep pleading her case.

"John was supposed to be here to help, that was always the plan. Well he's not and I know, I get, it's all my fault so please let me help." she had said.

Mycroft had of course let her in, Sherlock had sulked and now here they were.

The past few days had been at the very least a little bit trying for Molly. All of her worst habits, the hair twisting, the lip biting, the stutter, had reemerged with a vengeance. After...everything with John, she had laid down on the living room floor and cried until she fell asleep, then tried to be strong and brave when she woke up. She had planned to go to her mother's house and then her cousin's place but when the train had pulled into the station she had just turned right back around and went home. She knew she couldn't hide everything that had happened, and once she started talking she wouldn't stop, everyone would know everything and then to have to face them? No. She turned tail and ran back home, just like the Molly she always was.

But she also wanted to help, sincerely. She didn't know what she could do to help or how she could avoid making things worse, but she didn't want to sit in a guest room feeling useless while people risked their lives all over her mistake. So she had gone to Mycroft and Sherlock, but there really didn't seem to be anything she could do other than make sure they both ate occasionally and nod her head in agreement when one of them needed validation.

She had been watching both of them, carefully, since she got there. She was used to Sherlock a bit by now, used to his many dark moods, his oddities and his rough edges. She didn't take things so personally as she once had. He also had kind of softened up a bit, she thought, even though she wouldn't ever say so. But the Sherlock she was dealing with now was agitated, pacing, like a caged animal. He fired off text messages with angry pokes of his thumb and he stared at everything – plants, furniture, humans – with arctic eyes.

If Sherlock was reverting to the angry storm she had known a long time ago, Mycroft too was rewinding. He hadn't drunk a thing except water and tea. He was quiet, thoughtful and was trying his best to be a gentleman around her, reading her discomfort with him and attempting to put her at ease. If it was some kind of ploy, it was an excellent one because almost immediately she found herself trusting him again, listening, marveling at his smarts and having faith that he was going to get them all out of this.

So when Mycroft, stirring his tea still said, "I have an idea.", she jumped at the chance that she might be helpful after all.

"What can I do?" she asked.

"Well, Sherlock and I agree that Moriarty is homing in on us, the group that have wronged him. There's the matter of Paris, him not being on the plane. It's a trick, it's showy, very him. Just like...Callie. What would not be very him is confronting either Sherlock or I directly. He plans to make us come to him. Through good planning, we've eliminated most of the collateral he could use to taunt us." He trailed off, seeming to leave his sentence unfinished.

"Exce-cept me. He'll think he can use me to get to you."

"Precisely. Now we can make certain assurances, provide some back-up but I would not be able to make things 100% saf-"

"I'll do it."

From his perch where he was still clutching Molly's phone, Sherlock snorted. "Don't bait her Mycroft, of course she will."

"Pardon me? I didn't think anyone was speaking to you about this."

"Of course, who would want it pointed out that you are taking advantage of a vulnerable woman to do our dirty work for us? Marriage wrecked, son in trouble, emotionally fragile state. If you told her we could catch Moriarty by having her tap dance naked she'd probably agree."

"Well I don't see you coming up with anything better. This way we know where he will hit."

"Hit being the operative term."

"Why is it that you are so busy speaking for the health and safety of Mrs. Watson? You took her phone away like she was a naughty teenager, you've been throwing daggers with your eyes and your lower lip has been sticking out so far birds will land on it since she got here."

"Mycroft, Sherlock, really, I think it's a go-"

"Me? At least I'm not trying to block in a good shag before we're all dead. _Oh Molly, of course my dear, come in. Let me make you comfortable. Let me take your coat. _You're not really making your case for John not shooting you dead."

"Sherlock," Molly said somewhat desperately, "I think we shou-"

"Don't talk about things you don't understand, Sherlock. I know there's not much on that list but romantic relationships are still at the top."

"Good thing you get around enough for the both of us."

"SHERLOCK! MYCROFT! Stop it! What-what-what is the matter with you two? We're all hiding out drinking t-tea before your big time criminal arch nemesis comes to maybe kill us all, is now REALLY the time to be fighting like two spoiled little kids? Sherlock, you're vuh-very smart, the smartest person in the whole world and if you did want a romantic relationship with someone I am sure you would be able to take your pick. Mycroft you are also very smart and also intell-ll-igent and kind and when you die people will be very sad because of all the good you've done. Everyone is a genius. Stop being sodding jackasses now and let's figure out what you two will be doing while I'm a worm on a hu-hook because right now I think Jim will be able to cut my head off while you two argue about who has a nicer suit!"

Both of them stopped looking at each other and turned to look at her. The silence after her speech was nearly deafening. Neither one really apologized, or even looked embarrassed. It was like when she went to the zoo with Jamie and they looked at the lions. Very much like. Oh dear. Now her face was getting red too. She really shouldn't have said anything. She knew she couldn't even begin to understand what they were thinking or planning or everything they had to worry about, she just wanted to get moving with things.

After a full three minutes passed, she said very quietly, "I'm sorry, I ju-just meant we should get on with it because we might miss our chance."

"Well if you're sure." Mycroft replied.

They worked it quickly after that. Molly would return to her house with Mycroft, seemingly renewing their former carnal acquaintance. Not only would Molly be better protected, but it gave Moriarty two for the price of one. Mycroft would go outside occasionally, smoke out back, talk on his phone, giving someone a chance to slip inside the house if that's how it would happen. Sherlock would be keeping a watch outside and Mycroft would have his computer fixed up to be watching all the cameras on their block. It wasn't the perfect plan but it was what they had.

Molly tried not to fuss too much and even gave Sherlock a hug before she left (although he didn't hug her back). She was quiet and compliant and glad to be of help (that part she didn't have to fake at least). If she was nervous about the danger, she didn't show it much. If she was nervous about being alone with Mycroft, she didn't show it much. When they got to the house, she even followed him around as they checked all the rooms to make sure no one had been there already and that they were indeed alone. Mycroft set up his laptop on the dresser where they could both keep an eye on it and told Molly to try and relax while he made another round through the rooms and then stepped out back for a minute or two.

"Mycroft." she said as he was leaving the bedroom.

He turned and paused to listen.

"Do you think John was right? Am I horrible for what I did?"

"You're not horrible Molly. I've seen many horrible things done by horrible people. You are very far removed."

"Do you think that you're horrib...I mean, do you feel guilty about what you did? All the lying?"

"Sometimes I lie to protect people, like you and Jamie. Sometimes I lie in order for justice to be served. I never feel bad about that. But that doesn't mean I don't feel the weight of things on my shoulders."

"But you take that weight so other people don't have to. Right now you're trying to make me feel better even though I called you an ass and basically said you should feel just as bad as I do."

He walked back into the room and leaned over to kiss her, very chastely, on the forehead. Eventually, perhaps in his will, he would explain in detail to Molly all that he had to feel guilty for and all that she had done for him, by letting him see Jamie at all even when he didn't deserve it, by never being afraid to tell him when he behaved badly, and by having faith in him time and time again no matter how many times he had let her and her family down. "Let's not worry about all of that right now. There will be plenty of time for it later, alright?"

"Alright." she agreed.

"I'll be back in a moment."

Mycroft left her then and checked every room once more over, as well as all the locks, before going on onto the back porch. He listened to his voice mails and checked his emails, making sure he could be seen from any of the good vantage points around the house. The neighborhood was quiet and empty feeling. He had sent away his people when all this started, not wanting them caught up as collateral damage once Molly and John left and now any help he had was not in such an immediate range, for the same reason. If he died, that was fine, if someone else died in his place, it was not.

After making a show of the twiddling, he walked back inside. Almost immediately, he noticed something was different. His steps quickened to a run as he headed to the front door and found it still shut, still locked, just...not as he had left it. He couldn't explain what it was, but something was off.

He drew his gun out of his jacket and moved slowly up the stairs. With each step he took, his mind flashed back to a dark night in another house, another woman up the stairs, and how badly that ended. His pulse quickened and he had to force his breathing to remain calm and quiet as he went. He had to force his mind to believe that surely things could not go so awfully awry so quickly.

Approaching the bedroom, he didn't dare call out for fear of tipping off any company they might have. Instead he angled his body so he could see as much of the room as possible. Molly was still on the bed but someone was bent over her. .. .. ..

Silent as a church mouse (not silent as the grave, he avoided that phrasing in his thoughts), he started to approach, raising the gun up to take aim as he came to the doorway. But then...

"Sherlock!" he hissed. "What the devil are you doing here?"

His brother turned, sitting down on the floor by the bed in front of Molly. He sat but he also collapses. It was in his body language. Molly was crying now, Mycroft saw, and Sherlock's face was whiter than normal, his eyes almost imperceptibly rimmed in red.

"What's happened?" he asked, putting the safety back on and holstering his gun.

"Did your secretary know who Jamie's father is?" Sherlock asked slowly.

"Did... ..yes." God he hadn't even remembered that he told her, it had been on one of their last nights together. "She knew it was a ruse. You don't think that Moriarty knows? He killed her, clearly she didn't tell him anything useful."

"I know Moriarty knows. I got a call from a hospital in Luxembourg. John's there, he has been shot, and Jamie is gone. No one saw anything, of course."

"Did you speak to John?"

"He's sedated. My number was in his mobile, top of the list. No family with him so they called me. The people who found him said he was hysterical, they knocked him out." Sherlock's voice was calm as he said this all, monotone, while Molly was flinching with every word he said. In a frighteningly uncharacteristic gesture, Sherlock raised a hand and patted Molly's where it rested on the bed.

"What do we do?" she asked both of them.

"I'll have John transferred here, I can call people who will arrange it quietly. They can airlift him. Molly you'll stay with him. Not Barts or LRH, the Q.E., I can get fairly good security for him there. What is the extent of the injuries?"

"Two gun shots. One in his left knee, there's some bone damage, the other to his right thigh. He's already been operated on to remove fragments. He should be stable to move."

"Good then. That's taken care of. Now, there's the matter of -"

"Jamie." they all said.

"Yes. Jamie. Sherlock if you will be alright with Molly I need to get some things from my office."

"You're leaving?" he asked in disbelief.

"I want to check the files. I won't be gone long." He made his exit, his escape, quickly.

JamieJamieJamieJamie. Moriarty had Jamie. But he knew that the boy was his own. Surely he wouldn't hurt him. No one, not even Moriarty, could be that depraved. Wherever he was, he was fine, he had to be. Mycroft's fingers gripped the staircase railing to keep himself upright as he ran.

.

.

.

Back at the house, he unlocked his safe to pull his private papers. This was the intelligence he had collected and then set aside so casually when it came down to the safety of his loved ones. Connections, property holdings, officially unsolved crimes that he had linked. He had lied to his brother and Molly when he said he would not be gone long. He intended to read every word in these documents, the hard copies of things he had never committed to a computer, his collection of newspaper clippings and old intelligence he had smuggled away from work, until he found something that might tick.

He went into the study and out of habit he fixed himself a drink (whiskey, straight) and set it on the end table while he read. He could smell the alcohol and even taste it on the back of his throat, but he did not drink. Although he wanted to and needed to, he buried himself in the raw information instead. The need abated and then went away entirely until he got to a thick stack of typed pages stuck into the middle of the pile.

**FILE SUBJECT BEECHER, A. / INTELLIGENCE COMPILED BY V. KESSLER **

That was when the urge to drink returned with a vengeance, but no, he had to keep his head clear. For Jamie. He hadn't looked at any of this in years, and some of the pages were out of order or missing entirely. Her carefully gathered nuts of information were mixed in with his report of the mission of reprisal when he took out Sebastian. Even though he had read all these words obsessively until he had to stop looking at them, Mycroft could now approach them with fresh and urgent eyes. Now he was not seeking guilt, he was looking for answers, and those were sometimes much easier to find.

After Violet had been murdered, his reading of her reports was painful, like digging in an open wound, so he got through it as quickly as possible. Once Sebastian was dead and the deal with Moriarty was made, he didn't see how reading them would help. Even when he poured over the words while on a good drunken bender, he avoided these pages like the plague. Some of this he didn't remember at all.

Moriarty had a brother. Well, Aiden Beecher had a brother. Younger than him by many years, he had gone into foster care after their mother died. While Moriarty cut a bloody path to her killers, the younger Beecher boy was put into a good home and grew up to go to a good school and make an honest living. There was no connection between the two of them, no sign that he had anything to do with criminal activities, no evidence that they had even seen each other since they were children.

Except...

Beecher's brother was named James. The fact that Moriarty chose that as an alias must mean something. With everything Mycroft knew now about the way this man pulled at heart strings and made people his marionettes, was it not unreasonable to think that he might just have hidden a relationship very well? So well that all of British Intelligence, Interpol and every other police organization had been able to turn up nothing...

If anyone could do it, it would be him.

James Beecher did a good turn as a banker, then as an investor. He moved around a lot, accumulating wealthy clients, but he maintained a permanent residence is Switzerland, part of the wealthy banking class that ran so rampant there. When Mycroft had finally caught and put an end to Sebastian Moran, he had been on the Swiss/Italian border. Another coincidence?

It was somewhere to start. Sherlock and he would go together. They would set this right, as brothers.

Meiringen, Switzerland.

Close to the falls.


	27. Chapter 27

**DEAREST by Hrlyqin**

**part two – chapter eight**

**(chapter 27)**

"This is dramatic." Sherlock said. "How long have you been waiting to use the helipad?"

"What?" Mycroft yelled at him. Sherlock barely caught the words, even though they were standing right next to each other.

"I said... … nevermind." he closed his mouth with a cluck. He was still a bit fuzzy on the whole of human emotion some of the time, especially the more complicated ones, but he didn't think Molly would appreciate them joking right now. She was waiting, like a dutiful soldier's wife, a safe distance away with the ambulance. Mycroft made a call and a helicopter was transporting John back to England. He made another call and a private ambulance pulled up at his house like a taxi waiting to take John and the medical technicians to the hospital. He had tried to be beguiling and get information out of the driver, but whoever he was, he was well trained. Also heavily armed.

Power like this would almost be worth it, he had to admit.

When the roar of the blades became too much, he retreated back towards the house. Inside. To an interior room, until the noise that had been so overwhelming outside was only a quiet roar now, like the ocean outside a window. He found a chair and sat in it, beginning a mental list of prime numbers. He didn't realize he forgot a light and was in fact sitting in the dark until Mycroft came in and flipped a switch somewhere. Sherlock's eyes popped open with irritation. He had been at 1877.

"They've gone."Mycroft said.

"I heard."

"You didn't want to see him."

"Didn't I? Thank you, that for some reason wasn't obvious to me."

"I'm ready whenever you are, then."

"Really?" he got up, adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves, adjusted the buttons on his jacket, a thousand small little tics to hide nervousness. "The same helicopter?"

"Medical transports do tend to get around a little bit easier. Things you would learn, if you'd listen."

"Entirely useless information."

"All information is useless until you need it."

"Says the politician."

They continued to snipe back and forth as they were loaded into the same helicopter that had brought John. They sat side by side in the little seats running along one wall and facing the cot where their supplies sat. The cot had held John. Sherlock could smell the very distinct tang of his blood (AB+) and his eyes hunted until he found the medical waste container strapped to the wall close to their heads. A nagging reminder that would stay with them the entire trip.

He had let Mycroft plan. He didn't like it, but he was holding the cards right now. He had returned to the house and told them about a familial tie that wasn't ever explored after Moriarty became 'inactive' in Britain and that there was enough evidence to point to this destination as likely. It was all vague. A part of his brain was devoted to chipping away at that, saving any possible answers until he had time to worry about them. But right now he couldn't focus on it. He had to get to Jamie, for John and Molly, and then he had to deal with Moriarty. Nothing else was important until then.

So all he knew was that there was a brother, supposedly estranged, no legal issues, with a house in Meiringen. The helicopter was going to set them down in clearing close by, in the park surrounding the water falls there. It would be easy for them to slip into one of the groups of tourists taking in the natural wonder and sneak back into town amongst them. From there they planned to split up, Sherlock would go into town as a visible target, seeing if he could draw them out. Mycroft would go directly to the brother's house.

Mycroft doubted they would be lured out by Sherlock suddenly appearing in the middle of town. It was too obviously a set up. His brother would be safe.

Sherlock doubted that Moriarty would just be sitting at home, playing house and waiting. It would be up to him to engage the enemy.

Through a note pad passed back and forth, they went over the plan again and again until it was time for them to change into suitable tourist gear. Sherlock was loathe to shuck his good coat and change into a parka but there were lives at stake after all. He took solace in the fact that at least he did not look as silly as Mycroft did. When the helicopter landed, Sherlock got out wordlessly while Mycroft had a top secret conversation with the pilot. He waited impatiently, making huffing noises that he hoped were obvious cues to hurry things up, but Mycroft took his time and set out only when he was ready to.

They had to hike about a mile and a half, in unfamiliar vestments, trying not to drop guns out of pockets as they went. When they got closer to the roar of the water fall, Sherlock could at least see that they would have no trouble blending in with tourists as they were swarming the area like ants. Their hiking path had taken them close to the top of the falls and they hung back, getting a few last words in before they would wade into the mass of people crowding around the guard rails to take pictures.

"You go first. I'm going to be behind by at least five minutes. No point in us both being spotted, right?"

"Yes, right." he replied, annoyed in having to agree yet again with Mycroft.

"We'll meet at the rendezvous point at midnight if we don't turn anything up."

"Yes. I **know**."

"The train stops at sunset." Mycroft reminded, referring to the funicular railway that ran people to the very top of the falls and back down in cars that resembled staircases on tracks. Sherlock followed his brother's line of sight and could see a pair of those cars headed up right now. "Don't be in the last group that goes down, too obvious."

"Yes. I know. I'm not an idiot. Just try not to get shot or anything." he hissed, wishing for a coat collar to turn up as he walked away and managed to work his way between two young girls snapping photos. He didn't look back and assumed that Mycroft would wait as the group that Sherlock was now with continued with the walking path winding up and up to the top of the falls.

He loitered, he was good at loitering. He tried to blend in. The two girls he had stood between as well as several others asked him to take their pictures as they posed close to the water. He made polite, banal small talk and smiled like a moron until the herd seemed to accept him. The guide, lecturing them about the great danger of the water, even nodded a few times in his direction as she spoke. The talk had some interesting points he caught as he half-listened. Suicides. Violent deaths. Erosion of the cliffs and paths. He filed some of it away to study at a later time. By the time they had circled around the top of the falls and everyone had gotten as close to the railings as they dared and looked downward, Sherlock was securely a part of their pack and took to the middle of the group as they waited in the queue line for a staircase car of their own to take them down to the bottom where the tour buses would await.

Standing at least a half-head above the rest of the people, Sherlock jostled politely as they were loaded inside car #12. There were seats in the cars and he made his way up and to the back of the rows, letting the others fill out the car. There was a jolt and an unreassuring gnash of metal as the car started it's slow descent downwards.

As they went down, they passed a group of cars heading up. The people smiled and waved to the passengers going in the other direction like they were all old friends. Camaraderie of travelers, he supposed. He made a few nods and lifted his hand. The cars moved so slowly that he could take in each of the people going up as he went down.

Married couple, newlyweds. Honeymoon his idea. Wife not pleased. Six retirees from Spain still hung-over. A family, parents and two children, the female child was experiencing motion sickness. Jamie. Another couple, older, taking this trip for the second time, a young female teacher who was all but quivering with excitement over telling her class about this...

Stop. Wait.

Sherlock's head physically snapped backwards as his mind rewound what it had seen. Yes, Jamie. The car was past them now and moving away but he found the boy again. Sitting docilely. Appearing physically unharmed, but not calling out. He hadn't spotted Sherlock. Who was with him? His eyes moved over to the next seat.

Jim Moriarty was waving. Smiling.

And he was getting away.

Sherlock jumped up from his seat, startling the man next to him, and started to climb out of the back of the car. The tour guide and the operator both yelled at him but he shrugged it off as white noise. The man who had been startled reached out and grabbed his sleeve. Sherlock also shrugged him off. He went out over the edge of the car and dropped onto the tracks.

The yelling from his group didn't attract the attention of those in Moriarty's car, they had moved too far away. Shedding the cumbersome coat, he ran uphill, getting clear of the tracks and pacing along side them as he made his way back up.

He was out of breath, chilled and panting by the time he got there. No cars passed him so they must still be up there. He faced more babbling, screaming, gawking idiots as he pulled himself up onto the platform. There he stopped, just a minute, resting his hands on his knees and sucking in lungfuls of air as he peered around him, looking for the boy. Was this going to be a game now? Would they were waiting?

Whatever Moriarty had planned, he was not in sight. Once Sherlock could breath again, he set off looking. As he moved away from the train platform he lost the attention his entrance had caused. Sherlock set off to find them.

The sun was sinking from it's place in the sky and the temperature had dropped from when he had been up here before. The air was frigidly cold and the water hitting his face felt like small chunks of ice. They stung his cheeks and he could have sworn they drew blood as he marched forward. There were less people as well, less to eliminate. He retraced his earlier steps, heading back around to the footpaths that would take him progressively downward.

He pushed against the tide as he went, fighting the current of tourists headed up for a last look before taking the train down. He muttered a few apologies, barely looking at where his feet were, only looking at faces. The more time that passed, the more he was convinced that Moriarty had done something already. Maybe Jamie was already gone. He would be too late.

He was so focused that he nearly missed them when he found them. A group of three passed Sherlock (heading up, of course) and he was about to turn a corner following the rails when he saw them out of the corner of his eye. Moriarty had climbed underneath the railing and taking Jamie out to the edge of one of the embankments where there would be nothing between them and the water below.

Sherlock's mind raced as his body moved forward _(This is it then this is what his plan is but what is his plan is he going to kill Jamie his own child I doubt it but it is possible if he wanted to kill him why go to all this trouble was getting to Sherlock more important than the biological urge to protect ones young what would Molly do if Jamie died what would John do would he melt away leave London never see him again not be able to look at him if he didnt save him would he be glad though would be leave Molly yes but he would leave Sherlock too and Jamie was more than just a child and a pawn this was Jamie he was going to grow up to be a great man maybe almost as smart as Sherlock his successor his heir his good act here on earth he couldn't let him die no he had to save Jamie whatever the cost), _a million thoughts and then a final decision passing through him as he joined them out in the nothing.

"This is dramatic." he said, gesturing to the setting.

"Well, you know me, once I get an idea, I just fall in love with it. This is something I've had in mind for years really, just waiting for the right opportunity to pop up."

Moriarty was standing at the very edge, his arm around Jamie in a very fatherly way but his hand squeezing at the shoulder and keeping him put. Jamie looked down at his feet, at the water behind them and at Moriarty but he did not look to Sherlock and Sherlock could not figure out why. The distance was not small enough that he could grab Jamie before Moriarty could throw him over the edge, nor could he pull his gun and fire without also risking the child's life.

"And here I am." he finally answered.

"Here you are. Here we are." he corrected himself quickly, including Jamie in his speech and shaking the boy's shoulder as a reminder that he was there too. Jamie's feet twisted under him and for a moment he was dangling in the air over the water before Moriarty righted him. "My son, so I'm told. But I don't really see the resemblance, do you?"

"The boy isn't a part of this, Moriarty. Let him go."

Moriarty seemed to consider this for a moment and then started laughing. Great giant guffaws. Jamie looked up at him with large frightened eyes as his laughter took near-hysterical levels before he quieted, wiping his eyes with his free hand. "Sorry, sorry," he shook his head, "but when does that ever work? Honestly. Give me one movie where someone says 'Oh, they're not a part of this, let them go' and it actually works? Come on now, he's a very big part of this. Getting you and I back together after all these years."

"Yes, why the reunion, after so much time? I thought you'd forgotten about me. My feelings were crushed."

"Really?"

"No. I thought you were dead."

"Well sorry to disappoint you. But no. I was picking my moment, see. This," he violently shook Jamie, "wasn't so much part of the plan as a happy surprise. It's going to be so much fun now! "

"You want fun? I'll give you all the fun you can stand. Just give Jamie to me first."

"How important is he to you?" Moriarty used the hand that had stabilized him to lean Jamie back and dangle him again, just a bit, into space.

"What do you want?" he replied. He did not answer that he would exchange almost anything. It was probably clear on his face."

"I just want you."

"I'm here."

"No, see, I've thought about this, and I think we need to be in business together. You and I, we're the same. You're the only person I've ever met that's even vaguely interesting and oh, you and I, we had such fun together with our little game. But you, you have this thing, about killing and lawbreaking. This code. I knew you wouldn't just go along with it, no matter how much fun it would be. So I've waited. See I figured out that all I had to do was wait for you to get bored. I've given you long enough to see how routine and sad and gray it all is, helping the cops, solving crimes, sitting alone at night. Look at you, domesticated, a baby sitter. It's pathetic, and your poor brain going to rot. You're unhappy. You're alone. Your pet went and ran away on you. No one needs you. No one says thank you. You're a freak, Sherlock, that's all you'll ever be to them. So why bother? Come with me. We can unmake this entire planet, if we work together. We can show them all and I promise you... **I promise you, **you'll never be bored or unappreciated again."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to laugh. "You want us to be... . Partners? You really are a lunatic."

"Oh but you haven't heard the best part. That was my pitch, but I was saving something. I had a feeling you still might not just go along with things."

"I'm waiting. Go ahead. Dazzle me."

"Did you ever ask yourself why I just went away? Sure, I have this great plan now, let you decay and come and rescue you, but why did it start? What made me go away?" He said it slowly and to Sherlock's relief he pulled Jamie back at bit from the water, starting to walk back and forth with him. "It wasn't prison. It wasn't better things. Go ahead, take a guess. ...no? How about this – your brother let me go."

"What?"

"Mycroft let me go. He and I had a deal, you see, I let one little secretary live and stay out of the Queen's kingdom, and I can do whatever I want, for as long as I want."

"Mycroft-" Sherlock started to speak but his brain cut him off, blinking and then crashing like a computer. Everything blinked blue for a moment. He couldn't process it. It caused him pain, physical pain, trying to get through the thought.

But he didn't dismiss it. He didn't say it was absolute bullshit. He didn't say it was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard.

Wasn't this what had been at the back of his mind for years? The newspaper clippings Mycroft collected, the drinking, the murder of Callie's fiance, the sudden emergence of vital information just when they needed it. Mycroft's insistence that Sherlock and everyone else just let sleeping dogs lie. He had tried to chalk it up to cowardice, impotence, weakness. But it wasn't that at all.

The problem with what Moriarty was telling him was that it made sense. It was completely plausible.

"It's got you now, doesn't it?" Moriarty asked. "You want to tell me no, but you can't. That's your heart and your head at war right now. Hurts, doesn't it? But it proves my point. Mycroft sold you out. Your own brother. Trust me when I say that I know how that feels. So why bother? Why do the right thing? No one else does. John doesn't need you, he doesn't want you. Your own blood betrayed you. You owe these people **nothing**."

Sherlock didn't realize he had been shaking, but he was. His mind went to his gun and he wanted to draw it but he was shaking. He felt like he was going to split into two. This was...horrible. What was this? Was this a broken heart? No wonder people killed themselves. Drugs. He needed drugs. Just a taste. Just a high that would last long enough to get him through this. Something to numb him up. And then...

Then he didn't know what.

He felt like he knew nothing.

But there was one final thing, one final problem. Jamie. Whatever happened, Jamie had to be safe. He gestured out now, his fingers coaxing. "Let Jamie come here. As a sign of good faith."

"Hmmmm...don't think so."

"Why not?"

"Well first, you haven't exactly accepted my offer, have you? Why hand over my only bargaining chip?"

"And second?"

"What makes you think I'm going to give him back at all?"

"He's...a child. He's just a boy."

"So was I. That never stopped anything from happening to me."

Moriarty stepped back again, towards the edge, towards the water. Jamie was in front of him now and and arm slipped across his neck. He looked so small in the arms of Moriarty. Finally his eyes raised up to meet Sherlock's and he saw pure fear there. Jamie did not believe that he was going to be saved.

"Just...I'll do it. Chaos, sounds great, I knew a stripper named Chaos once, she was a lot of fun. Just give me Jamie first. We'll leave him here and then we can go off together. Wherever you want."

"But how am I going to know you're on my side?" he asked reasonably. "I can think of a way."

It suddenly became clear to him. "...No."

"One boy. There's millions in the world. Millions that no one loves. Millions that won't be saved." His feet were brushing the edge now and he swung Jamie around so he was facing the water. Sherlock looked around desperately but there was no one in sight any longer. No one but them there. He would only have one chance. He would have to be quick.

"Moriarty!" Sherlock yelled, rushing forward.

The other man turned and as he did, he started to push. Sherlock saw Jamie's left foot leave the ground. There was a pebble stuck in the sole of his shoe. His arms cartwheeled wildly, trying to find purchase in air. Sherlock was not going to make it. His arms stretch but somehow they were not long enough.

The other foot now, moving in slow motion as he watched the seconds pass, rose up from the soil and kicked out as Jamie as falling backwards.

Then there were a blur beside Sherlock, coming from the treeline. Something pushed him forward towards Jamie but he could not make it out. Everything in him narrowed and focused until all he could see was a small set of fingers that he grabbed and pulled for all that he was worth, bringing Jamie back from oblivion. Sherlock wrapped his hands around fingers then arms and then torso and retreated from the edge, shoving himself backwards and wrapping Jamie tightly up in his arms.

Once the child was safe and near, everything expanded again and the world around him came back into existence. Time sped up until it moved at it's normal rate. He started to breathe again.

It was only then that he had an instant to take in what had happened, and a moment to see Mycroft and Moriarty going over the side and into the air.


	28. Chapter 28

**DEAREST **

**A Sherlock fanfiction by Hrlyqin**

It went by in a flash. One moment Mycroft was there, slamming his body into Moriarty's and letting the momentum carry them both and then the next moment there was... nothing. Just a blank space against the purple sky that had a moment ago been occupied by two giants of the world.

It was empty now.

Sherlock did not say anything, he did not cry out. He kept breathing, feeling the rise and fall of his chest, but surely that was only because of the biological imperative. He certainly didn't do it on purpose.

His first conscious movement was to set Jamie down on the ground next to him. He wasn't speaking either but Sherlock did not know and did not ask if he saw anything. Even if he had wished to talk, it didn't seem like he would be able to. His mouth felt like glue.

So here it was, the empty space, which he now cautiously approached. Jamie stayed sitting where he was on the packed dirt next to the guard rail so Sherlock was alone as he came forward. Alone was what he felt, down to the core of his being. Even if Jamie had come with him, even if John had been standing here by his side, he would have still felt nothing but solitude. This was like death, it was something he had to do alone.

A dozen scenarios went through his mind. Mycroft could have hit one of the many ledges, small embankments and sharp jagged juts of rocks that framed the falls. His body could be resting on one of them. He could have broken his neck. He could have smashed his head open. He could have hit the water far below and shattered every bone in his body. Sherlock told himself that by thinking of these things before he looked, in the seconds it took him to get to the edge, he would be prepared for what he found. He tried very hard to believe that.

And now, here he was.

Alone at the edge, he looked down.

Less than two meters below them, there was one of the spills of rocks entrenched in the soil of the cliff that Sherlock had pictured in his mind. But instead of the broken body of his elder brother, Mycroft was there and very much alive, clinging with both of his hands to the largest of the rocks as his feet dangled below him. Sherlock knelt down and Mycroft looked up to see him. Neither of them said a word.

Glancing back to make sure that Jamie was still at the guardrail, Sherlock knelt down on the ground as Mycroft managed to pull himself up to chest-level with the rock he was gripping only to slip back down again.

"Sherlock, I need help." said Mycroft, breaking the silence.

Sherlock was slow to reply. He watched the struggle for 78 seconds more. "He said you let him go."

"What?" Mycroft's voice was rough with physical strain. In contrast, Sherlock's was painfully calm.

"Moriarty said you let him go. He said you made a deal with him. Is that true?"

"Sher- I'm losing – help me up!"

"Is it true?"

Exasperated now by a rescuer who wasn't rescuing, Mycroft tried again to pull him up. He again got his chest up as high as the rock and tucked a knee in, trying to find leverage for the rest of his body. Sherlock shook his head and clicked his tongue as Mycroft failed again, this time letting one of his hands slip off the rock as well.

Now it was only four fingers keeping him from failing. The pale, thin fingers of his right hand. There was a tan line across his ring finger from a trinket he no longer wore. Sherlock knew that if he were to turn that hand over, he would see the faded circular scar of an old burn on the palm, just below his fingers . It had been an experiment, he remember. Sherlock had been eight, or nine perhaps, and wanted to make borax crystals. Sherlock had boiled the water in the kettle and filled the jar with the pipe cleaners and chemical inside, then wrapped a kitchen towel around the sides of the jar to carry it to his room. He tripped over the carpet in the hall and Mycroft had come from nowhere (most likely the study) and grabbed the hot top of the jar before it could fall and shatter. It had left a welt on his hand and he didn't speak to Sherlock for a month, even though Sherlock had visited him nightly and put butter on the burn.

Three fingers now.

"Sherlock, please, help me." Mycroft pleaded.

"Answer the question first. Was he lying to me, or were you?"

"Sherlock!...I – yes, I made a deal! But it was to protect everyone! Callie nearly died. Molly could have died. I don't expect you to understand but you at least have to believe that I didn't have a choice!"

"You always have a choice."

"No! No, I didn't. It was the only way. I promise."

Sherlock cocked his head to the side, deciding. Another finger went and he kicked and thrashed, managing to get his other hand on the rock again, but he would not last long.

"Sherlock..."

Sherlock stood up. took a step backwards.

Just then, Jamie, drawn by the sounds of not just one but two voices, got his feet under him and came up to join Sherlock. "Father!... .. ..hang on! We'll help you up!"

As if coming out of a trance, Sherlock visibly shook himself before kneeling down again and taking Jamie's verbal coachings to reach his arm out further and to lay down more until Mycroft could reach up with one hand and lock onto Sherlock. Both of Sherlock's hands went around Mycroft's arm and pulled until he was up over the rock, then at the edge of the cliff, then back on solid ground with them.

Jamie was like a puppy, jumping all over Mycroft. Where he did not speak at all before, now he wouldn't stay quiet. "Are you okay Papa? Do you need a doctor? Are you hurt? Do your hands hurt? Does your head hurt? Do your legs hurt?"

"Jamie...shhhhh." Mycroft patted him on the back in a gesture that was both soothing and shushing. "My everything hurts. Are you okay?"

The boy nodded. "Yep. I was brave."

Later, both the men knew, they would need to talk to the child about what had happened. Not only what had occurred on this spot, but before. He seemed normal. He was quiet when Sherlock was quiet, trying to follow his example always out of fear of disappointing him and catching the sharp side of his tongue. He was worried about Mycroft and chattering like a parakeet now. It was the same Jamie. But underneath all of that, there may be things. Dark things. Who knows what Moriarty could have said to him when they were alone? So they would talk, later.

Mycroft and Sherlock, on the other hand, would most likely do all they could to avoid speaking for as long as they could stand it. Even now they didn't meet each other's eyes as they got to their feet. They didn't make small talk, or joke, or insult each other as they made their way back up to the top of the falls where they found one frazzled tour guide trying to get the rest of her group of Danes into their little stairway car. When they called Molly to say that everyone was alright and they would be back soon, Jamie used Sherlock's phone and told her that Mycroft had pushed 'the bad man' over the side of a mountain, Molly insisted on talking to Mycroft. When they said their goodbyes, Mycroft handed the now silent phone back to Jamie and let Jamie hand it back to Sherlock. When the local authorities were interviewing them, they were of course split up but then Sherlock seemed to sit back and let Mycroft handle explaining the situation, organizing a search of the water and area for Moriarty, arranging for a BOLO on the brother, all the incidentals. Sherlock did not comment, not even to interject an important fact everyone had missed or to point out someone's spectacular idiocy. He mostly stayed with Jamie and made sure he ate and was warm and didn't want to tell him anything.

It was eerie, and something only two people as unique as the Holmes brothers could accomplish with such expertise.

They were forced to stay in Meringen until the police could confirm most of their story. Mycroft made several calls that no doubt helped that process along. Then they were asked to stay until some kind of conclusion could be reached about the fate of Moriarty. Even sharing a hotel quite, the brothers managed to avoid looking at each other as much as possible. It wasn't until the fifth night that they were forced to interact and only then, because of Jamie.

He had actually been trying to catch them together all night and finally had to take matters into his own hands. From the main room of the suite, he switched off the telly and marched into Sherlock's room, where Sherlock was laying across his bed texting irritating things to Scotland Yard about crimes he had read about online.

"Uncle Sherlock." Jamie tugged at his sleeve. Sherlock stopped texting to look at him. "You have to come out and sit on the sofa."

"I...have to?"

"Please?" Jamie asked.

So Sherlock got up and went out to sit on the couch. Jamie told him to stay and Sherlock made a woofing noise in reply and got his phone out again. Jamie then went across to the other bedroom where he was staying with Mycroft and where currently Mycroft was sitting with his laptop, trying to figure out current patterns for the water around the falls and failing somewhat abysmally.

"Father," Jamie said in an extremely straight-forward way, "I need you to come out to the sofa with me."

Mycroft agreed and allowed himself to be herded. He let Jamie sit him next to Sherlock and then watched as Jamie sat down in front of both of them, using the coffee table as a chair and folding his legs underneath him before speaking.

"I want to know how Dad is doing." he said, surprising them both. "I tried asking you, Uncle Sherlock, and you told me to ask Mum. Mum starts crying whenever I ask. I tried to ask you too Father but you said Uncle Sherlock probably knows and then he just tells me to ask Mum. I know that the man hurt Dad really badly. Now no one is telling me anything. Is he going to be okay?"

Mycroft coughed and looked at Sherlock as a parent's reflex. The look asked what they should say. Sherlock took the lead. "John is going to be alright, but he is very sick right now. Your mother is very upset about this and therefore cannot be relied upon to answer questions in any logical or calm way."

"What's wrong with him? He got shot. But you've gotten shot, and so have you, and both of you were okay right away afterwards."

"John has an infection called Osteomyelitis. Bacteria got inside his bones because of the poor conditions at the hospital where he was first treated, before Mycroft..." Sherlock bit down on his own tongue at saying the name, "brought him home."

"I didn't know that. How are they treating it?" Mycroft asked, speaking directly to Sherlock.

"Not well?" Sherlock said back.

"I'll make a call in the morning. I know a specialist out of San Diego for this type of thing. He's treated a lot of my... .. friends for things like this."

"Oh. Um, thank you."

"Oh it's really no trouble. Maybe if you tried being nicer to people you'd have contacts too."

"Yes. Thank you Mycroft." Sherlock grimaced and Mycroft smiled tightly. For a moment, their old humor was recaptured.

"So Dad's going to be okay?" Jamie asked for clarification.

"Yes. Mycroft is going to swoop in and fix everything, apparently. Jamie, do you want to talk about..the man?"

"Oh. Yeah, I figured you guys would want to talk to me about it."

"When you were taken, where did you go?" Mycroft asked him.

Jamie shifted nervously. "We just went here. We tried to stay in this house but we couldn't so we stayed in a hotel, but it wasn't as nice as this one. Who was he?"

"Who did he say he was?" Sherlock asked.

"He said I could call him Jim. I didn't like him. He was creepy."

"In what way?" Mycroft asked.

"He asked me lots of things. He asked if I had any pets. He asked if I had ever hurt any of my pets. He wanted to know if I wanted to hurt people. I told him about the time I pushed Fiona on the playground. He also asked me quiz stuff, like Uncle Sherlock does, but I don't think I did very well. He said.. .. he said that Dad let me go with him because Dad didn't want me. Since I wasn't his kid really."

"What did you tell him?"

"I think he thought I didn't know that because he got angry when I said that Dad didn't mind it before. Then he just sort of stopped talking to me at all, until we went to see the waterfall. He said we were going to put on a show and that you guys might come to see it, but first we would have to get the TV people to come and tape us."

Sherlock twitched. Mycroft clenched his hand into a fist. "Did he say how he was going to do that?"

"Nooooo..." Jamie answered carefully, "Just that I was going to be really important. But it worked, because then you guys did come, right?"

"Right. Jamie go brush your teeth, it's bedtime."

Jamie complied and went into the bathroom, shutting the door because like John he tended to be private about those things. Sherlock looked at Mycroft and Mycroft looked back before they both started whispering.

"Surely you don't think he planned..."

"I do think so. So do you. Jamie hasn't figured it out, at least."

"His own son?"

"My own brother." Sherlock replied, making a point.

"Sherlock, I know you're angry with me. It's fine. I didn't expect you to understand, that's why I didn't tell you."

"I don't understand. I don't think anyone would understand."

"Does... ...anyone need to?" Mycroft asked carefully.

"You want me to keep your secrets now?"

"You've always known that people like you and I are different from the Mollys and Johns of the world. We make decisions they cannot. We deal with things that would drive them mad, horrors from which they couldn't recover. John tasted it, in the army, and you saw what he was like after that. That is every day for us. We may never be the same. I know that. It cost me dearly. But if you tell them, I will be cut off for good. I'll never see Jamie again."

"So you're asking me for a favor? I want to be clear on this. You lied to me for years. You took something from me that was worth more than almost anything else. You threw it in my face that I let Moriarty go for long enough to get people I love hurt. John was shot. He could have died. My friend John, who is more of a brother to me than you have ever been, has infected bone marrow because of you. Jamie could have been thrown off the top of a waterfall, because of you. Callie is dead now because of you, Mycroft. Don't speak to me like this is not a big deal because as deals go, this is **huge**."

"I know that!" he yelled, then quickly lowered his voice. "I know. I have to live with that. Isn't that punishment enough? I must wake up every day and know that I failed. Don't..." Mycroft changed his strategy. "If you won't do it for me, do it for Jamie. Do you want him to lose me?"

It was like a spectacularly well played chess move. Sherlock had to admire it's deftness. He was caught. "For Jamie." he agreed.

So they had a truce, of sorts. Like John had worked around his problems with Molly in front of Jamie, Sherlock and Mycroft presented a united front. Two days later, a body was recovered from the shoreline. The face was intact enough that they could be sure it was Moriarty. As much as Sherlock needed to be sure, he was sure. The man was dead. Within twelve hours of positive identification, he was sitting in John's hospital room telling him that fact: the man was dead.

John breathed out slowly. "Dammit." he said. "I was still hoping I would get to do it myself."

"Sorry to disappoint you."

"Well, speaking of disappointment," John struggled to sit up and Sherlock rose from his chair to assist, getting the pillows into a more comfortable configuration. "They're going to let me out of here next week."

"Why is that disappointing?"

"Molly and I, we're going to go to sea for awhile. It's not too far to travel but far enough away that we can work on some things. Mycroft agreed to keep Jamie while we're gone."

"So when you say work on things..."

"Work things out, figure out how we work, try to make it work, work on us."

Sherlock groaned.

"She's pregnant again." John confessed.

Sherlock groaned deeper.

"I knew you'd react this way."

"No, having a child is the perfect solution when you need to save a marriage. Works every time. I'm living proof."

"That was low." John said, but he was smiling a little. As grim as Sherlock's tone was, he knew that his friend didn't mean what he said. He was simply being himself. "And here we were thinking of naming it after you. Then again, Arrogant Pompous Ass is a bit awkward on a birth certificate."

Sherlock smiled back. "And...Mycroft?"

"Yes, It's actually a **lot** easier to like him now that I know he didn't sleep with my wife. We're thinking of starting a book club."

"So you're running away to the sea and leaving me alone with Mycroft?"

"Not alone. I talked to Mrs. Hudson, she said the new tenant has taken a shine to you."

That elicited another, more morose groan from Sherlock. "She wants to make me dinner."

"It might not be so bad."

"As I've told you before, girls, women, not my department in the least."

"But maybe, as a friend? You know, a back-up one for when I'm out of town or have to work."

"She does have an interesting collection of South Seas artifacts..."

"Poison darts?"

"Shrunken heads."

"Sounds like a perfect match."

John laughed at his own remark and Sherlock laughed as well until John tried to move his legs and the laugh became a sharp cry of pain, forcing him back against his pillow squeezing his eyes shut.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock sprang up again. "Nurse!"

"No...no, I'm fine. Just moved it the wrong way. Sherlock..." John grabbed his friend's hand and wrapped it up in his own, lacing his fingers tightly around the paler more slender ones. "I'm fine. I promise. I'm fine."

They separated themselves quickly after that, but John's reassurances didn't keep Sherlock from worrying. He snuck food into the hospital for John. He slept in the room, giving the nurses murderous glares if they tried to make him leave. He only went away when Molly came in. Sherlock got in as much time as possible with John before he was discharged. The amount of texts he would send him on his vacation would no doubt be unbearable.

He did promise, and kept the promise, to check in on Jamie every day. Jamie and Mycroft. John asked him to make sure Jamie was 'doing okay', no nightmares or anything, believing he would talk to Sherlock about things he may not to Mycroft. Molly asked him to make sure Jamie was 'doing okay' in the sense that she really wanted him to check on Mycroft.

Sherlock knew that with a single sentence, he could bring this all crashing down around his brother. But it was a sentence he didn't speak. He could see how heavily it weighed on his brother now. He had been so wrong, thinking it was drinking, loneliness, the looming prospect of failure. But it hadn't been any of those things. It had been guilt, and it was eating at him still.

That really was punishment enough.

After his daily visit, Jamie walked Sherlock out to the gate so he could catch a taxi from the main road. The walk would give him long enough to smoke and think about decay patterns in radiation poisoning victims.

"See you tomorrow?" Jamie asked him.

"Five o'clock sharp." he replied.

"And you're bringing Toby?"

"Disgusting-purple-cat-carrier-that-was-a-birthday-gift-from-your-mother and all. He's looking forward to it. Wants to tell you all about his shock and awe campaign against the rodents."

Jamie laughed even though he had no idea what Sherlock meant. Sherlock let himself out of the gate and got out his cigarettes, waving as he walked away and eventually out of sight. Jamie had shut the gate behind him but watched even after he was gone. He hoped when he grew up he could be like his Uncle Sherlock, or his Dad, or his father. Really any of them would do.

He was thinking about this, the choices he would have in life, as well as a boy his age could, when a man walked up to the gate. Jamie didn't know him and automatically took a step back.

"Hello Jamie." the man said.

When Jamie didn't answer, he kept talking. "You don't talk to strangers? Good. That's a good plan." The man pulled something out of his pocket and pressed it against the locked gate, which popped open a minute later. "The only thing is, I'm not really a stranger."

"You're not?" Jamie asked skeptically.

"No, not at all." The man squatted down so he was eye level with the child. "I'm your Uncle and my name is Jamie too. So see, we're not strangers anymore, right? Now tell me...where's your father?"

The End.

**Author's Notes and Thanks: There it is. If you've read this far I hope you weren't disappointed. Please leave a review to let me know. Thanks and dedications to Roxanne-Michal for being my sounding board, to Victoria for loaning me her Sherlock series 1 bluray set and insisting I watch it, to Callie for finding me all the best Mycroft stuff on Tumblr and to all those who left reviews and feedback along the way to make the story a better experience for everyone. Thank you! -Hrlyqin **


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